A welcome more cordial than usual greeted them one sweet and tranquil afternoon. Cowbells tinkled in the distance, coming home along the River Road for the milking hour, and the chains of Morgan’s harness jangled an echo from his sides. The leather parts of this harness were mended here and there with bits of white string, and his usually glossy, short hair was rough and lacked care. He was not pretty, but always bold and fearless in his style of movement. As was his custom, Nathan Nye sat whittling his birch stick into useless shavings. “Let the Morgan see if it’s _in him to do it_!” he cried to Evans. “What’s the game to-day?” asked Evans, cheerfully. With a backward nod and a frown Nye indicated three strangers standing in the doorway of the little shop. “Travellers from over to Benedict’s,” he explained, in an undertone. “They heard about our horse and have come to try out against him. I’ve got a sneaking idea that we can take the starch out o’ their biled shirts for ’em!” He shut his knife with a determined click and rose. “_They_ claim size is necessary for speed and endurance,” he went on; “they are just from The Plains of Abraham; on their way back to New York; came yesterday and hearing at the stage-house that we had something of a horse in these parts staid over to-day to satisfy their curiosity.” “We’ll satisfy it!” laughed Evans, confidently. Three strange horses stood hitched near by, and Evans went to take a look at them, as if casually. The Morgan followed, as a faithful dog might, extending his nostrils as he caught sight of a cloak thrown over one of the saddles. He caught the scent and blew his breath on it in a disgusted way. He had recognized the odor of the Coxcomb, Master Knickerbocker! Nye had also followed Evans. “I’d just like to show these New York dandies the sort of horses we can raise in Vermont,” he said, apparently oblivious of the fact that the best and first part of True’s raising had been done in Massachusetts. “Even if we can’t afford to use all that ody cologne, and wear frills on our shirt fronts. They say these two horses were bred on the Winooski at the Ethan Allen farm, but this one”--he indicated the horses as he spoke--“is from down New York way.” Evans walked around and looked at them critically. “Good horses, all of them,” he remarked, with appreciation, “and fresh.” “Rested all night at the Inn,” Nye corroborated, resentfully. The Morgan was working himself up over the scent of the cloak--any test for him against the horse on whose saddle it lay was as good as won already. He had an intuition that Mistress Lloyd would like him to defeat the Coxcomb, whose horse was a fretful, vicious animal--handsome enough, it was true, and with many races to his credit--but he was too full of conceit and self-confidence to please Morgan.