“That so? Well, I reckon I’ve read it in the newspaper. My name’s Jard Hassock, an’ I’m the proprietor of this here hotel, which is known far an’ wide as Moosehead House.” He pulled up a chair and sat down, then leaned over confidentially. “Maybe you’ve seen Strawberry Lightnin’?” he queried.
“No—but I have heard of her,” returned Vane.
“I bred her,” said Hassock with a rapt look in his eyes. “Bred her, owned her an’ trained her. And the Willy Horse! He was her sire—I owned him, too. His dam died when he was only four days old, an’ I got him cheap an’ raised him on a bottle. He was the best horse ever bred in this province, an’ then some! Sold for twenty thousand—but that wasn’t the time I sold him. Oh, no! Four hundred was the price I got. Can you beat it?”
“Sounds tough. I’ve heard of the Willy Horse, too.”
“He was a wonder! But I didn’t have the chance to try him out like I did the mare. She was good! Her mother was a little bit of speed I got in a trade up to Woodstock. She was sure a winner, that Strawberry Lightnin’! I raced her two years, an’ then I sold her for a thousand. Had to do it. It ain’t the money you make that counts in that game, but the money you spend. I’m content to live quiet enough here in Forkville, but when I’m racin’, an’ away from home an’ the like of that, mister, the Derby winner couldn’t keep my pockets full a week.”
Vane yawned and quickly apologized for it.
“Guess I’d best be goin’,” said Hassock, rising slowly to his feet.
“I’m sleepy, I must admit,” returned Vane. “Out all day in the fresh air, you know.”