At the boy's entrance he paused for an instant, glanced
carelessly over the side of the stall, and then went on with his
work.

"Playing night-owl, eh?" he remarked indifferently. "There's no
rubbing-down for you to do, I reckon."

"There's a darn sight worse," returned the boy, throwing out the
oath with a conscious swagger as he braced himself against the
ladder that ran up to the loft.

His tone arrested Christopher's hand, and, lifting his head, the
young man stood attentively regarding him, one arm lying upon the
broad back of the old mare.

"Why, what's up now?" he questioned with a smile. Some fine
chaff, which he had brought down from the loft, still clung to
his hair and clothes and darkened his upper lip like a mustache.

"Grandpa's found it out and he's hopping," said the boy. "I
always told you he would be, you know, and now it's come. If he
ever catches me with you again he swears he'll give it to me like
hell. He pressed tightly against the ladder and wagged his head
defiantly. "But he needn't think he can bully me like that--not
if I know it!"

"Well, he mustn't catch you again," returned Christopher, not
troubling to soften his scorn of such cheap heroics; "we must
manage better next time. Did you think to remind him, by the way,
that I once took the trouble to save your life?"