“He’s out to the barn, same as he usually is, I guess likely. He spends more time with them horses than he does with me, I know that. I say to him sometimes, I say: ‘Anybody’d think a horse could talk the way you keep company with ’em. Seems as if you _liked_ to be with critters that can’t talk.’” “Perhaps he does--for a change. Well, if he comes in tell him I want to see him. You can call me when supper’s ready. Now, if you’ll pull those curtains--” The curtains were snatched together with a jerk and a rattle of rings on the pole. From behind them sounded the click of dishes and the jingle of silver. Foster Townsend sank back into the leather chair. His cigar had gone out, but he did not relight it. He sat there, gazing at nothing in particular, a gloomy frown upon his face. The door leading from the rear of the front hall opened just a crack. Through the crack came a whisper in a hoarse masculine voice. “Cap’n Foster!” whispered the voice. “Cap’n Foster!... Ssst! Look here!” Townsend turned, looked and saw a hand with a beckoning forefinger thrust from behind the door. He recognized the hand and lifting his big body from the chair, walked slowly across the room. “Well, Varunas,” he asked, “what’s the matter now? What are you sneaking in through the skipper’s companion for?” A head followed the hand around the edge of the door, the head of Varunas Gifford. Varunas was Nabby Gifford’s husband. He was stableman on the Townsend estate, took care of the Townsend horses, and drove his employer’s trotters and pacers in the races at the county fairs and elsewhere. He was a little, wizened man, with stooped shoulders and legs bowed like barrel hoops. His thin, puckered face puckered still more as he whispered a cautious reply. “Cap’n Foster,” he whispered, “can you just step out in the hall here a minute? I’ve got somethin’ to tell ye and if I come in there Nabby’s liable to hear us talkin’ and want to know what it’s all about. Come out just a minute, can ye?” Townsend motioned him back, followed him into the dimly lighted hall and closed the door behind them. “Well, here I am,” he said. “What’s the matter?” Varunas rubbed his unshaven chin. His fingers among the bristles sounded like the rasp of sandpaper. “You know Claribel?” he began anxiously. Claribel was the fastest mare in the Townsend stable. The question, therefore, was rather superfluous. Claribel’s owner seemed to consider it so. “Don’t waste your breath,” he ordered. “What’s the matter with her?” Varunas shook his head violently. “Ain’t nothin’ the matter with her,” he declared. “She’s fine. Only--well, you see--” “Come, come! Throw it overboard!” “Well, I was cal’latin’ to take her down to the Circle to-morrow mornin’ early--about six or so; afore anybody was up, you know--and try her out. Them was your orders, Cap’n, you remember.” “Of course I remember. I was going to remind you of it. You’re going to do it, aren’t you?”