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"Guess the colt can wait awhile," grumbled the boy; but he went out, all the same, and Bartley, looking through the window, saw his lantern wavering, a yellow blot in the white moonshine, toward the stable. He sat down in the hostler's chair, and, in his turn, kicked the pine-root with the heel of his shoe, and looked about the room.
Nevertheless, the hostler's ostentatious adjuration of "Now then, aren't you going to bring out that mustang for the Señora?" puzzled her. It was not until the fresh horse was put to, and she had flung a piece of gold into the attendant's hand, that the "Gracias" of his unmistakable Saxon speech revealed to her the reason of the lawyer's caution.
"That's my bizness," answered the hostler, and tightened his clutch of Sleepy Sol's nape. "Well, you'd better not mind it," answered the young man calmly. "Let go." The hostler's thick lips emitted a disdainful laugh. "Let go, d'you hear?" repeated the young man. "I'll let go at your nose," said the hostler, clenching his knobby fist. "Very well," said the young man. "Then I'll pull yours."
Then he carelessly tapped a little blood from the hostler's nose, gave him a few thumps on the chest as if to test the strength of his lungs, and laid him sprawling in the courtyard. A brother hostler ran out from the stables and gave a cry of astonishment. "You'd better wipe his face," said the young man curtly. The newcomer hurried back towards the stables.
The landlord rang the hostler's bell to attract the attention of the stable-man, for the approach of the visitors had been deadened to noiselessness by the snow, and when the hostler had come to the horse's head the gentleman and lady alighted, the landlord meeting them in the hall. The male stranger was a foreign-looking individual of about eight-and- twenty.
The hostler's eyes looked down sadly on the ground. "Germany reminds me of my wife," he replied. "Indeed! How?" "She once told me she had lived in Germany long before I knew her in the time when she was a young girl." "Was she living with relations or friends?" "She was living as governess in a foreign family." "In what part of Germany?" "I don't remember, ma'am. I doubt if she told me."
We took leave of Francis Raven at the door of Farleigh Hall, with the understanding that he might expect to hear from us again. The same night Mrs. Fairbank and I had a discussion in the sanctuary of our own room. The topic was "The Hostler's Story"; and the question in dispute between us turned on the measure of charitable duty that we owed to the hostler himself.
Pat was in need of just this cleaning. Though wallowing but little, leaving that form of exercise to the older horses, he nevertheless was gritty with sand from swirling spring winds. So he stood very still under the hostler's vigorous attention. But Miguel's ambition did not stop here.
I see a dingy little stable, containing two stalls. In one stall a horse is munching his corn. In the other a man is lying asleep on the litter. A worn, withered, woebegone man in a hostler's dress. His hollow wrinkled cheeks, his scanty grizzled hair, his dry yellow skin, tell their own tale of past sorrow or suffering.
Clean stole her look out! Ketch him, Joe!" Anderson dropped limply into a hostler's arms. Rosalie Disappears Things had happened in Tinkletown that night. Alf Reesling finally found some one who would listen to his story. He told the minister and the minister alarmed the town.
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