“Good hay, Phil, that,” he said. “A bit dusty, maybe, but all right if the price suits. How much do you reckon there is there?”
“It’s hard to see,” answered Phillip, “but I should say about eight tons.”
“Gingeration! I’ll buy it for eight,” chuckled Markham, “yes, sir! I reckon there’s nearer ten. It’s mighty well settled. I’ll ride down to the house and see ’em; it won’t take but a minute.”
Presently he returned, loping up the little rise toward them.
“That’s fixed, Phil. Got it for nine tons. They wanted eight and a half for it, but I got it for eight and a quarter. Good hay, too, by doggie, sir, yes!”
“Tom, can’t you get us up a fox hunt some day soon?” asked Phillip on the way back. “This is good weather, you know.”
“Certainly I can. Old Colonel Brownell and a lot of the boys rode over here last Saturday and borrowed the dogs and found just back of Clearspring. They had a good run and caught a young vixen right down over yonder”—pointing into the darkness toward the west—“and the Colonel carried off the head. The Colonel’s sixty-eight,” he continued, turning toward John, “and he’s never missed a hunt yet. Well, now, how would next Monday morning do?”
“All right, I reckon,” answered Phillip. “And we’ll pray for as good weather as this.”
“You’re right; this is certainly mighty fine weather. Well, I’ll leave yo’-all here and jog home, I reckon. Good-night, Phil. Good-night, Mr. No’th; mighty pleased to have made yo’ acquaintance, sir, an’ hope to see yo’ over at my place before yo’ leave, sir.”
Half-way home, while riding through a clearing that was bordered on one side by a dark wood, there was a sudden noise in the underbrush, followed by the sweet, clear, bell-like note of the beagle and the sharp, excited yelping of Tudor Maid. John’s mount threw up her head, laid her ears back and tugged at the bit.