What does he know about stock-farming?"
"Says he's been reading up."
"Fiddlesticks!" roared the Colonel. "You can't learn farming out of a
book! What does he know about horses?"
"Oh! He's on to horses all right," Noah grinned ambiguously. "You and
I couldn't teach him anything about horses."
"Can he shoot?"
"Can't hit a barn door."
The Colonel heaved a deep sigh, drained the last drops from his
tumbler, then leaned forward, confidentially:
"Noah Wicker, do you like that young chap?"
"Like him?" Noah looked up in surprise. "Why, everybody likes Don
Morley."
"I don't," said the Colonel fiercely. "Here he comes now. I wish you'd
look at that!"
A headlong young man in model riding costume, astride a bob-tailed
sorrel, rashly took a fence where gate there was none, and came
cantering across the Colonel's favorite stretch of blue grass.
"Awfully sorry to have cut across, Colonel!" he called out in tones
that spoke little contrition. "Slipped my trolley as usual and got
lost in the bullrushes. Hope I haven't kept Miss Lady waiting?"
The Colonel rose and extended a hand of welcome. A true Kentuckian may
commit murder and still be a gentleman, but to fail in hospitality is
to forfeit even his own self-respect.
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