“Hanged if I know, and he didn’t look as if he knew himself. He’s a queer fish, aint he?”
“He is. Everybody can’t be as sensible and handsome as we are, you know. Where are you going with those horses, young man?”
“To get them shod. Won’t you come along? You can ride the horse I’m on. It’s got a bridle. I’ll ride the one with the halter.”
“How far away is the blacksmith’s shop?”
“Oh, a couple of miles or so; down at the Cross Roads.”
“Well,” said Yates, “there’s merit in the idea. I take it your generous offer is made in good faith, and not necessarily for publication.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“There is no concealed joke, is there? No getting me on the back of one of those brutes to make a public exhibition of me? Do they bite or kick or buck, or playfully roll over a person?”
“No,” cried, young Bartlett indignantly. “This is no circus. Why, a baby could ride this horse.”
“Well, that’s about the style of horse I prefer. You see, I’m a trifle out of practice. I never rode anything more spirited than a street car, and I haven’t been on one of them for a week.”