Bartley pitched his valise into the cutter, and then, as Andy left the horse's head to give him a hand with his trunk, offered him a dollar. “I don't want anything,” said the boy, shyly refusing the money out of pure affection.
But Bartley mistook his motive, and thought it sulky resentment. “Oh, very well,” he said. “Take hold.”
The landlord came out. “Hold on a minute,” he said. “Where you goin' to take the cars?”
“At the Junction,” answered Bartley. “I know a man there that will buy the colt. What is it you want?”
The landlord stepped back a few paces, and surveyed the establishment. “I should like to ride after that hoss,” he said, “if you aint in any great of a hurry.”
“Get in,” said Bartley, and the landlord took the reins.
From time to time, as he drove, he rose up and looked over the dashboard to study the gait of the horse. “I've noticed he strikes some, when he first comes out in the spring.”
“Yes,” Bartley assented.
“Pulls consid'able.”
“He pulls.”