“You wanted me to say ‘sheep,’ I suppose?”
“Got it, at once.”
“As though one valuable horse wasn’t worth a thousand sheep.”
“Just what my friend, Don Manoel Alcorta, of Los Andes ranch, Catamarca, always held,” put in Winter, drawing the bow at a venture.
Hart cocked an eye at him.
“Sir,” he said, “I would take off my hat, if I wore one in Steynholme, to any man who claims the friendship of Don Manoel Alcorta, a sincere patriot. I suggest that we crack a bottle to his immortal memory.”
“My doctor forbids me to touch wine,” said Winter mournfully.
“But these bucolic breeders of browns and bays employ wiser medicos, I’ll go bail. Landlord, a quart of the best, and six out, as they say in London.”
Six glasses were duly filled with champagne. When it was consumed, Hart buttonholed Peters.
“A word with you, scribe,” he said. “Good-day, gentlemen. I leave you to your nags. Treat Mr. Franklin fairly. The friend of Don Manoel Alcorta must be a true man.”