process reached the barred stall. Then I became
interested. One of the boys approached the stall with a bucket in one
hand and a pitchfork held near the pronged end in the other. He swung
open the lower door and whacked the fork handle back and forth inside,
yelling harsh commands in the meantime. He succeeded in getting the
bucket where the horse could drink, but the pitchfork was seized and
twisted and the boy had difficulty in wrenching it away. It was all he
could do to regain possession of it.

"Little pink toes is feelin' like his ole sweet self again," said
Blister. "I been worried about him--he's seemed so pie-faced here
lately."

"Don't worry none about him," said the boy who had watered The Big
Train. "Mama's lamb ain't forgot his cute ways." Then he addressed
the other boy. "Say, Chic, you snored somethin' fierce last night!
Why don't you sleep in here with Bright Eyes, so's not to disturb me?"

"Would, only I might thrash around in my sleep 'n' hurt him," promptly
replied the other boy.

Two figures had come from the street, through the gate and strolled
down the line of stalls. One of them was feminine, and in white, and
as they drew nearer, "Good evening, Mister Jones," floated to us in an
assured though girlish voice.

It was the landlady's daughter, attended by a cavalier in the person of
a stolid young man of German extraction, as I thought at first glance,
and this was confirmed by Blister's, "Let me make you acquainted with
Miss Malloy," and "Shake hands with Mister Shultz."

Then began the by no means unskilful playing of one lover against the
other. She sat, a queen--the bale of straw a throne--and dispensed
royal favors impartially; a dimple melting to a smile, a frown changed
by feminine magic into a delicious pout.

In the moonlight she was exceedingly lovely. She seemed
unapproachable, elusive, mysterious, and yet her art touched the
material. She contrived to bring out how successful Mister Shultz was
in the bakery business, and in the next breath told nonchalantly of the
vast sums acquired by a race-horse trainer.

She appealed to Blister to corroborate this.

"Isn't that so, Mister Jones? Didn't you tell me you get fifty dollars
a week for training one horse?"

Blister was not above impressing his rival, it seemed. He nodded to
this deceptive question. And since he had nine horses in his "string,"
the worthy German's eyes bulged.

At last I rose to go and our li