clattered down the stairs. No, Wakefield did not want his breakfast from that galley!
He ran across the fields, climbed the sagging rail fence, and was on the road. Soon he was opposite the door of the blacksmith shop, between its tall elms. John Chalk, the smith, was shoeing a grey farm horse. He glanced at Wake from under his shaggy brows, and went on hammering the shoe.
When he dropped the hoof, and straightened his back, Wakefield remarked: "My pony's cast that last shoe you put on her."
"That's queer," said Chalk. "Are you sure it was that one? She'd no right to cast that one so soon."
Wake looked at him dubiously. "Hadn't she? I had my doubts of it when you put it on. I thought it was a very queer-looking job."
Chalk glared. "I like your cheek! There was never a shoe better put on than that shoe, and I'd like you to know it!"
Wakefield folded his arms. "I don't want," he said, "to take my custom from you."
"You and your custom!" bawled the blacksmith. "You and your one little pony that I could pick up under my arm like a sheep! Take it away, and be darned to you. I guess I can make ends meet without it!" He wiped his brow with a blackened hand.
"Well," said Wake, "if it only was one pony you might be snifty! But it'll likely be a whole string of racehorses before long. You see, I'm the heir to the—my grandmama's money."
"A likely story," jeered Chalk. "The old lady'ud never leave it to a little whippersnapper like you!"
"That's just why she did it. She knew I needed it—what with my weak heart and all. I've known it for a long time, but the family's just finding it out this morning."
Chalk regarded him with mingled admiration and disapproval. "Well, if that's true, and you've got the old lady's money, I pity them, for of all the high-cockalorum, head-up-and-tail-over-the-dashboard young rascals I ever set eyes on, you're the worst." He began
