The explosion which the younger man seemed to fear from this forecast of disaster and failure did not follow. With a control that was at variance to past bursts of temper, MacDonald drew up a chair, and his niece, the real loser, still worried over the super-employee's physical condition, stood near by.
"It'll never be a case of kick-out, Tom," said the widow, who never was more attractive than when smiling under difficulties. "How many did they get this go?"
"Thirty-odd of the two-year-olds," murmured Fitzrapp.
"The racing stock," grunted the major. "Damn them!"
"Almost out of our front yard, too. The nerve of them! Did they leave Mrs. Cuss the kitchen stove, or was it too hot to move?" This came from Ethel, at last aroused to anger.
But Fitzrapp had more in the way of news. "And—and they stole Canada, Ethel!" He called out this startling addendum with an agony of voice that reflected his great affection for the splendid black stallion.
For a moment both Ethel and her uncle sat speechless. The fleet-footed Canada was Fitzrapp's personal property, but that did not lessen their keen regret. They fairly boiled with indignation at this crowning outrage, for the horse must have been taken from his box stall in the stable behind the ranch house.
"Wonder they didn't take the porch chairs while they were about it," blazed the major. "Let's have the whole story, Tom."
"If I hadn't been a blooming, blasted idiot," was Fitzrapp's halting start; "if Duncan O'Hara hadn't been in league with the cut-throat band from the States——"
"Dunc O'Hara!" interrupted the major. "Where in hell is that rascal? He didn't show up at the stables when we drove in."