Forrest nodded.

"The other has worked for us two years, but he's drinking now, and he
takes his hang-overs out on his horses--"

"That's Smith, old-type American, smooth-shaven, with a cast in his
left eye?" Forrest interrupted.

The veterinary nodded.

"I've been watching him," Forrest concluded. "He was a good man at
first, but he's slipped a cog recently. Sure, send him down the hill.
And send that other fellow--Hopkins, you said?--along with him. By the
way, Mr. Hennessy." As he spoke, Forrest drew forth his pad book, tore
off the last note scribbled, and crumpled it in his hand. "You've a
new horse-shoer in the shop. How does he strike you?"

"He's too new to make up my mind yet."

"Well, send him down the hill along with the other two. He can't take
your orders. I observed him just now fitting a shoe to old Alden
Bessie by rasping off half an inch of the toe of her hoof."

"He knew better."

"Send him down the hill," Forrest repeated, as he tickled his champing
mount with the slightest of spur-tickles and shot her out along the
road, sidling, head-tossing, and attempting to rear.

Much he saw that pleased him. Once, he murmured aloud, "A fat land, a