“Well, Varunas,” he asked, “what’s the matter now? What are you sneaking in through the skipper’s companion for?”
A head followed the hand around the edge of the door, the head of Varunas Gifford. Varunas was Nabby Gifford’s husband. He was stableman on the Townsend estate, took care of the Townsend horses, and drove his employer’s trotters and pacers in the races at the county fairs and elsewhere. He was a little, wizened man, with stooped shoulders and legs bowed like barrel hoops. His thin, puckered face puckered still more as he whispered a cautious reply.
“Cap’n Foster,” he whispered, “can you just step out in the hall here a minute? I’ve got somethin’ to tell ye and if I come in there Nabby’s liable to hear us talkin’ and want to know what it’s all about. Come out just a minute, can ye?”
Townsend motioned him back, followed him into the dimly lighted hall and closed the door behind them.
“Well, here I am,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
Varunas rubbed his unshaven chin. His fingers among the bristles sounded like the rasp of sandpaper.
“You know Claribel?” he began anxiously.
Claribel was the fastest mare in the Townsend stable. The question, therefore, was rather superfluous. Claribel’s owner seemed to consider it so.
“Don’t waste your breath,” he ordered. “What’s the matter with her?”
Varunas shook his head violently. “Ain’t nothin’ the matter with her,” he declared. “She’s fine. Only—well, you see—”