"Finest match team anywhere," agreed Abner Follis, plucking at his gray goatee and mouthing a straw, "an' I make a business o' raisin' thoroughbreds. Cousins, they are, an' without a blemish on 'em. An' trot--you'd ought to see that team trot." "What'll you take for them?" asked Wallingford. The response of Abner Follis was quick and to the point. He kept a careful appraisement upon all his live stock. "Seven hundred and fifty," said he, naming a price that allowed ample leeway for dickering. It was almost a disappointment to him that Wallingford produced his wallet, counted over the exact amount that had been asked, and said briefly: "Unhitch them." "Well!" said Abner, slowly taking the money and throwing away his straw in petulance. It was dull and uninteresting to have a bargain concluded so quickly. Wallingford, however, knew what he was about. Within an hour everybody in town knew of his purchase. Speculation that had been mildly active concerning him now became feverish. He was a rich nabob with money to throw away; had so much money that he would not even dicker in a horse deal--and this was the height of human recklessness in Blakeville. Wallingford, purchasing Jim Ranger's new buggy and his best set of harness, drove to the Bubbles', the eyed of all observers, but before he had opened the gate Mrs. Bubble was on the porch. "Jonas ain't at home," she shrilled down at him. "Yes, I know," replied Wallingford; "but I came to see Miss Fannie." "She's busy," said Mrs. Bubble with forbidding loftiness. "She's in the kitchen getting dinner." Wallingford, however, strode quite confidently up the walk, and by the time he reached the porch Miss Fannie was in the door, removing her apron. "What a pretty turnout!" she exclaimed. "It's a beauty," agreed Wallingford. "I just bought it from Abner Follis." She smiled. "I bet he beat you in the bargain." "So long as I'm satisfied," retorted Wallingford, smiling back at her, "I don't see why we shouldn't all be happy. Come on and take the first ride in it." She glanced at her stepmother dubiously. "I'm very busy," she replied; "and I'd have to change my dress." "You look good enough just as you are," he insisted. "Come right on. Mrs. Bubble can finish the dinner. I'll bet she's a better cook, anyhow," and he laughed cordially. The remark was intended as a compliment, but Mrs. Bubble took distinct umbrage. This was, without doubt, a premeditated slur. Of course he knew that she had once been Mr. Bubble's cook! "Fannie can't go," she snapped. Wallingford walked straight up to Mrs. Bubble, beaming down upon her from his overawing height; and for just one affrighted moment Fannie feared that he intended to uptilt her stepmother's chin, or make some equally familiar demonstration. Instead, he only laughed down into that lady's belligerent eyes. "Yes, she can," he insisted with large persuasiveness. "You were young once yourself, Mrs. Bubble, and not so very long ago."