XXXI
Some hours later Dixon, sitting in his cottage, oppressed by the misfortune that had come to his stable, heard a knock at the door. When he opened it a neatly dressed, slim youth stepped into the uncertain light that stretched out reluctantly from a rather unfit lamp on the center table.
“Is this Mr. Dixon?” the boy's voice piped modestly.
“Yes, lad, it is. Will you sit down?”
The boy removed his cap, took the proffered chair, and said somewhat hesitatingly, “I heard you wanted a riding boy.”
“Well, I do, an' I don't. I don't know as I said I did, but,”—and he scanned the little figure closely, “if I could get a decent lightweight that hadn't the hands of a blacksmith, an' the morals of a burglar, I might give him a trial. Did you ever do any ridin'—what stable was you in?”
“I've rode a good deal,” answered the little visitor, ignoring the second half of the question.
“What's your name?”
“Mayne.”
“Main what?”