“Did he hurt either of the mares, or frighten the ladies much?” Neil inquired.
“He made one of the mares break a trace, and gave her a pretty good lick on the shoulder, that’ll make her limp awhile; but the ladies, sir!—they behaved finely—we quite admired them. Be quiet there!” he called, as Cliquot kicked out, just missing the man’s arm. “I declare, Mr. Emory, it’s as much as one’s life is worth to groom such a horse as this.”
“Well! so it is—there! that’s for your risk; something extra,” and he handed him a five-dollar gold-piece. “Take lots of care of him, my man,” he called out as he departed.
“What extravagance!” exclaimed Reginald.
“That’s my mood, just at present,” and Neil laughed.
Reginald was right in thinking George Clayton would give Emory some trouble if they met. Like all cowards, he was a dangerous fellow when aroused by wine. His dark, handsome face looked like a demon’s, as he came out of the pool-room, holding his hat in one hand, while he ran the other back and forth through his hair, and swung his long limbs across the track.
“Don’t talk so loudly,” said one of his friends; “there’s Emory!”
“Just what I want,” cried the young man, in a violent manner, going up to where Neil stood, waiting for a hack to take his friend and himself home.
Neil had turned at the sound of his name, and now, with his cool, calm face, confronted the speaker, whose visage was inflamed by passion and wine.
“Well,” he said, “what do you want?”