The mare, Joe saw with a thrill of admiration, was superb. A groom had brought her out roaring and plunging. Suddenly she was on her hind legs, pawing the air, whistling and snorting. A girl screamed.
The blind man’s ears had etched the picture. “A spirited animal, Bruce.”
“Spirited, yes.”
“Too much spirit, perhaps.”
Bruce shrugged. “Allan wouldn’t thank you for a cream-puff. He knows how to ride—he’s proud of it—he warms to a horse with plenty of fire.”
“And yet—.” The cane in the right hand swished gently against a trouser leg. “Even a skilled rider might find it dangerous to ride a strange, fiery horse in the dark.”
“Why don’t you tell that to Skipper, Doctor? It’s his show. Anyhow, the mare isn’t a killer. I know horses.”
“And gypsies?” the doctor asked softly.
Joe was conscious of those strange premonitions twitching at his nerves. Bruce gnawed at his mustache.
“I might as well tell you,” he flung out suddenly. “Of course I knew that the gypsies had made camp; I talked to some of them. When you’ve had your own taste of being harried and pressed you shrink from hounding others. The truth is, Doctor, I’ve lost practically all of what money I had a year ago. Skipper had a hot tip on a deal and let me in. It wiped me out.”