I looked down the road to let him know that I was anxious to be off. The hint was wasted, for he stepped in close to the roan and started to stroke him on the neck, muttering and mumbling to himself words of the highest praise.
He twisted his head to the one side like a bird on a perch and winked at me knowingly.
“Do you know what I’d give for this horse?” he demanded.
“He’s not for sale,” I said with some abruptness. But he went on as though I had not spoken.
“I’d give everything I have,” he burst out. “I’d give my parchment, my inkhorn and my quills. And I’d be willing to forget all I know of the art of writing, if I could call him my own!”
I almost laughed in his face.
“You’re generous, master scrivener,” said I, and once more gathered in the reins.
But he was not to be so easily shaken off. He made a pretense of great affection for the animal. He laid his cheek against its head. He took to stroking its mane. Then he looked up into my face with a cunning leer.
“Do you know,” he began slyly, “I don’t believe the horse is yours at all.”
“What!” said I. “Do you take me for a thief?”