“A splint? Perhaps he has a splint.”
They returned to the hotel and both alighted.
“Skittish devil,” remarked the landlord, as the colt quivered under the hand he laid upon him.
“He's skittish,” said Bartley.
The landlord retired as far back as the door, and regarded the colt critically. “Well, I s'pose you've always used him too well ever to winded him, but dumn 'f he don't blow like it.”
“Look here, Simpson,” said Bartley, very quietly. “You know this horse as well as I do, and you know there isn't an out about him. You want to buy him because you always have. Now make me an offer.”
“Well,” groaned the landlord, “what'll you take for the whole rig, just as it stands,—colt, cutter, leathers, and robe?”
“Two hundred dollars,” promptly replied Bartley.
“I'll give ye seventy-five,” returned the landlord with equal promptness.
“Andy, take hold of the end of that trunk, will you?”