“There was a time when I had two work teams an’ a roadster, an’ a bit of speed in every box,” said Jard. “But I’ve cut down the farmin’ of late, an’ I’ve quit breedin’ an’ racin’ altogether. Twice stung, once shy—that’s me.”
Vane murmured something sympathetic, and examined the two medium-sized, elderly farm beasts in the stalls with polite interest, patting their noses, laying a finger here and there, shooting quick glances at their legs. Not a glance or movement of this escaped Jard, who watched him with a twinkle in one eye and a probe in the other.
“Very useful,” was the stranger’s comment.
Jard nodded and crossed the floor and opened the upper wing of the door of one of the boxes.
“Look a-heer at something different,” he said. “Lady Firefly.”
Vane joined him and looked into the roomy, well lighted box. A roan filly turned and thrust a silken muzzle into Jard’s face, then into his hand.
“Some speed, there, I wouldn’t wonder,” continued Hassock.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” replied Vane. “How old is she?”
“Sixteen months. She’s a granddaughter of the Willy Horse’s sister—or maybe it was his half-sister. You can’t get much information out of old Luke Dangler. You said you’d heard tell of the Willy Horse, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”