Some small boys, heavy with their
midday meal, came to the gate of the yard, and in an idle repletion
exhausted themselves in conjectures as to the true inwardness of
Tinker's relation with Blazer, and Alloway's absorption in it. Twice
the blacksmith came to the smithy door, and a large, slow grin spread
painfully over his bovine face.
Tinker continued to pet Blazer till the surprised and mollified dog sat
down between his feet, and put his head on his knee. Then Tinker began
to apply that power of concentration in which he had been trained by
his father to the discovery of a method of final escape. Presently
Alloway went to the gate, and, climbing onto it, sat waiting for his
triumph in a stubborn doggedness.
After a while Tinker said gently, "That's a good horse you ride, Mr.
Alloway."
The farmer said nothing.
"He's young, isn't he?" said Tinker.
An acute and scornful expression of "You don't get round me!" filled
all of the farmer's face that was not covered with whiskers.
"Did you think to tie him up before you ran after me?" said Tinker
earnestly.
Alloway sprang from the gate as though a very sharp nail had of a
sudden sprouted up immediately beneath him, slapped his thigh, and
stood shaking his whip at Tinker with expressive, but starting eyes.
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