United States or Ireland ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
"From Butte," answered the Bald-faced Kid. "Wanted to get some ideas on the spring trade; saw you had a horse in the Thornton Stakes; thought I might find you; got here just as the race finished. Old-timer, how are you? You don't know how good it is to see you again!" "I know how good it is to see you, my son!" The old man laid his arm across the youth's shoulders. "How's the wife, Frank?"
"Ah, hah! You haven't told her yet." "No, but I'm going to. That's honest." "I believe you, son, but did it ever strike you that mebbe she wouldn't want you to make a fresh start on money that you got this way? Mebbe she wouldn't want to start with you." "Dough is dough." The Bald-faced Kid stated this point in the manner of one forestalling all argument.
He was after a number of men in that club, and, whenever opportunity offered, he reached out for them and mangled them. Even the newspapers, with one or two blackmailing exceptions, ceased abusing him and became respectful. In short, he was looked upon as a bald-faced grizzly from the Arctic wilds to whom it was considered expedient to give the trail.
While Engle was closeted with Goldmark, Old Man Curry was entertaining another nocturnal visitor. It was the Bald-faced Kid, breathless, his brow beaded with perspiration. "Just got the tip that Elisha has gone lame," said the Kid. "I was in the crap game over at Devlin's barn when Squeaking Henry came in with the news. I ran all the way over here." "Oho, so it was Henry, eh?"
"Find Engle and tell him I want to see him!" "Well, old-timer, here we are again with our hat in our hand!" It was the Bald-faced Kid, at the door of Old Man Curry's tackle-room. "This time you've put one over for fair! Major Pettigrew has just passed out his decision to the newspaper boys." "His decision, eh? Was he kind of severelike?" "Oh, no o! Not what you'd call severe.
"Oh, all right," said the Kid, "if that's the way you feel about it but maybe I've got some information I could trade you for it." "I never swapped hosses blind," said Old Man Curry. "I won't ask you to," said the Bald-faced Kid. "It's no news that Engle's bunch is out for your scalp, is it?" "No-o," said the old man. "I kind of suspicioned as much." "They're after you strong, old-timer.
She had, indeed, come to like the villagers thoroughly; not the summer population, for the guests at all summer hotels are alike uninteresting, but for the quiet life that went on year in and year out in the little side streets: the women who washed clothes and swept porches, who gardened with tow-headed babies tumbling around them, who went on Sundays to the little bald-faced church at ten o'clock.
Away with four fresh horses from the Bald-faced Stag, where topers congregate about the door admiring; and the last team with traces hanging loose, go roaming off towards the pond, until observed and shouted after by a dozen throats, while volunteering boys pursue them.
Shanghai, the hostler, appeared at the head of the chute leading a large, coal-black horse. "Well, for Heaven's sake!" muttered the Kid, moving nearer the fence, his eyes glued on the black stranger. "Where did you pick up that fellow?... One white forefoot. H-m-m!... Say, you don't mean to tell me this is Fairfax?" Old Man Curry nodded. "Fairfax!" ejaculated the Bald-faced Kid disgustedly.
"So would I ... I kind of like the old coot.... Now what on earth do you suppose he's done to that horse since this morning?" A few thousand spectators were asking variations of the same question, but one spectator asked no questions at all. The Bald-faced Kid was reduced by stuttering degrees to dumb amazement.
Word Of The Day