The unsuspecting Tom was too good-natured to be offended, and shortly after dinner Austen found himself in the process of being looked over by a stout gentleman named Putter, proprietor of Putter's Livery, who claimed to be a judge of men as well as horses. Austen had been through his stalls and chosen a mare.
“Durned if you don't look like a man who can handle a horse,” said Mr. Putter. “And as long as you're a friend of Tom Gaylord's I'll let you have her. Nobody drives that mare but me. What's your name?”
“Vane.”
“Ain't any relation to old Hilary, be you?”
“I'm his son,” said Austen, “only he doesn't boast about it.”
“Godfrey!” exclaimed Mr. Putter, with a broad grin, “I guess you kin have her. Ain't you the man that shot a feller out West? Seems to me I heerd somethin' about it.”
“Which one did you hear about?” Austen asked.
“Good Lord!” said Mr. Putter, “you didn't shoot more'n one, did you?”
It was just three o'clock when Austen drove into the semicircle opposite the Widow Peasley's, rang Mr. Crewe's door-bell, and leaped into the sleigh once more, the mare's nature being such as to make it undesirable to leave her. Presently Mr. Crewe's butler appeared, and stood dubiously in the vestibule.
“Will you tell Miss Flint that Mr. Vane has called for her, and that I cannot leave the horse?”