"The rein's caught over the shaft," explained Madge. "It makes her uncomfortable. Though what, dear?"
"That's the trace, and it's him, anyway. Oh, nothing. Only I never was so awfully keen on slobbering."
"She's a dear, really. If you knew what an angel she's been to me all summer! What makes her look round in that wild-eyed way?"
From Harry's answer, "He's tired, that's all," we may assume that this question referred to the horse, though her next remark went on without intermission: "I don't want you to go away to-night thinking—"
"I like slobbering," asserted Harry. "Always did.... Now if that's all, dear, perhaps I'd better make tracks." The last ceremonies of parting had been performed and he was in the buckboard.
"Just a moment, while I kiss your horse's nose. It doesn't do to neglect these little formalities.... I'm glad you like slobbering, dear, because your horse has done it all over my shoulder ... no, don't get out. It had to go in the wash anyway. He's a sweet horse; what is his name?"
"Dick, I think. Oh, no—Kruger. Yes, he's that old."
"Because, dear," went on Madge, with her hand on the front wheel; "there's one thing one mustn't forget. There was—Mr. Gilson, you know."
"Good Lord," said Harry, struck by the thought.
"Yes, and what's more, there still is!"