When Philip returned to the store he found awaiting him a young man on horseback, whose face was unfamiliar. When the seller of the walnut land had departed, the young man said:—
"See anythin' wrong 'bout this hoss?"
After a hasty but close examination Philip admitted that he did not.
"Glad o' that," said the man, "'cause o' this." As he spoke he handed Philip a bit of paper on which was written, in Caleb's familiar chirography and over Caleb's signature:—
"Dear Jim: Anybody would be glad to give you seventy-five dollars in cash for your colt, but you're foolish to sell now. Keep him a year, and you'll get fifty more, but if you're bound to sell, please give Mr. Somerton first show.
"Yours truly,
"Caleb Wright."
"I suppose, from this, that you'd rather have seventy-five dollars than your colt?" Philip said, as he returned the letter.
"That's about the size of it; but if you ain't sharp-set for a healthy three-year-old, of the kind they hanker after up to the city, I reckon I can find somebody that is, seein' that Caleb's a good judge an' never over-prices hosses when he thinks he's likely to do the buyin' of 'em."
"Come in," said Philip, who quickly made out a receipt for seventy-five dollars for one sorrel horse, aged three years, which the young man signed.