Dodge," called the chauffeur, "but are you
going to want me soon?"
"I want you at once," called back the banker, adding in a lower
voice to Fred:
"Flannery, my new chauffeur, was a coachman for many years. He's
a fine judge of horseflesh."
Flannery came up, an inquiring look on his face.
"I want you to look this pony over and tell me just what you think
of him," directed the banker.
Flannery went over the pony's "lines" with the air of an expert,
as, indeed, he was.
"Fine-looking little beast," said Flannery. "He has been well
fed and groomed."
Then he looked into the pony's mouth, examining the teeth with
great care.
"Used to be a nice animal once," decided Flannery, "but he was
that a long time ago. He's about twenty-five or twenty-six years
old."
"_What_!" exploded young Ripley, growing very red in the face.
"Thinking of buying him, sir?" asked the chauffeur respectfully."
"I've already bought him," confessed Fred ruefully.
Flannery whistled softly. Then he took the pony by the bridle,
dragging him along over the ground at a trot, the crowd making
way for him.
"Wind-broken," announced the ex-coachman, leading the trembling
animal back. "Bad case, too."
"A veterinary can cure that," Fred declared, speaking more airily
than his feelings warranted.
"Hm!" replied Flannery dryly. "You find the veterinary, Master
Fred, and I'll show the gentleman how to make his fortune if he
can cure wind-broken horses.
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