Harboro was looking after him with peculiar intensity. He looked at the horse, which stood sentinel-like, above the drowsing dog. Then he engaged the stable-boy in further conversation.
“A pretty good-looking horse, too,” he said. And when the boy nodded without enthusiasm, he added: “By the way, I suppose it’s usually your job to get horses ready when people want them?”
“Yes, mostly.”
Harboro put a new note of purposefulness into his voice. “I believe you send a horse around for Mrs. Harboro occasionally?”
“Oh, yes; every week or so, or oftener.”
Harboro walked to the boy’s side and drew his wallet from his pocket deliberately. “I wish,” he said, “that the next time Mrs. Harboro needs a horse you’d send this fine animal to her. I have an idea it would please her. Will you remember?” He produced a bank-note and placed it slowly in the boy’s hand.
The boy looked up at him dubiously, and then understood. “I’ll remember,” he said.
Harboro turned away, but at the entrance he stopped. “You’d understand, of course, that the dog wouldn’t be allowed to go along,” he called back.
“Oh, yes. Old Mose would be penned up. I’d see to it.”
“And I suppose,” said Harboro finally, “that if I’d telephone to you any day it wouldn’t take you long to get a horse ready for me, would it? I’ve been thinking of using a horse a little myself.”