To conceal his mortification, he began to brush the dust from the colt's feet with a wisp of grass. But his cheek was not the only one that tingled at the old man's words. Chester was very warm in the face; but only the clergyman observed the fact, and he alone could probably have understood its cause.
"To tell the truth," said Mark, laughing, "the colt isn't mine; he belongs to Mr. Skenitt, over on the north road; he has hired me to break him."
"I don't believe that," replied Mr. Royden, half in jest, and half in earnest. "Nobody that knows you would trust you to break a young horse."
"Why not?"
"You're so rash and passionate. You can't keep your temper."
"I believe in whipping, when a horse is ugly," muttered Mark, as if half a mind to take offence,—"that's all."
"You mustn't mind my jokes," said Mr. Royden. "Come, how did you trade?"
"I put away the brown horse, and gave some boot," replied Mark. "By the way, you haven't heard of any one's losing a horse recently, have you?"
"No; what do you mean?"
"Why, Skennit's boys saw a stray one in the road last night."