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He did not know how long he had stood by the window, but he presently heard the kitchen door open.

“That’s one of Tom Sunderland’s livery horses, ain’t it, Mr. Tough?”

“Yes, and he’s very slow and lazy. As a matter of fact I wanted to mention horses to you.”

“You ain’t got a horse o’ yer own, then?”

“Not yet. You might know perhaps where I could get a reliable pony, quiet enough for Mrs. Tough?”

“Now, Mr. Tough, maybe I might. I suppose you want a purty good piece o’ horse flesh?”

“Well, yes, I do.”

“Wife a horse fancier, Mr. Tough?”

“Oh, she’s fond of driving; yes.”

A slight pause, during which Bard coughed.

“It’s purty hard,” he said, clearing his throat, “to buy a horse that’s a good roadster and at the same time a good looker an’ quiet like; understand me.”

“Just so.”

“Now I’ve got a three-year-old mare here that ain’t never been beat in these here parts for looks. O’ course, I ain’t never even thought o’ sellin’ ’er. She was sired by the best Percheron that was ever led around this section.”