Two figures had come from the street, through the gate and strolled
down the line of stalls. One of them was feminine, and in white, and
as they drew nearer, "Good evening, Mister Jones," floated to us in an
assured though girlish voice.
It was the landlady's daughter, attended by a cavalier in the person of
a stolid young man of German extraction, as I thought at first glance,
and this was confirmed by Blister's, "Let me make you acquainted with
Miss Malloy," and "Shake hands with Mister Shultz."
Then began the by no means unskilful playing of one lover against the
other. She sat, a queen--the bale of straw a throne--and dispensed
royal favors impartially; a dimple melting to a smile, a frown changed
by feminine magic into a delicious pout.
In the moonlight she was exceedingly lovely. She seemed
unapproachable, elusive, mysterious, and yet her art touched the
material. She contrived to bring out how successful Mister Shultz was
in the bakery business, and in the next breath told nonchalantly of the
vast sums acquired by a race-horse trainer.
She appealed to Blister to corroborate this.
"Isn't that so, Mister Jones? Didn't you tell me you get fifty dollars
a week for training one horse?"
Blister was not above impressing his rival, it seemed. He nodded to
this deceptive question. And since he had nine horses in his "string,"
the worthy German's eyes bulged.
At last I rose to go and our little circle broke up. The girl, with a
coquettish good night to me, moved away from us and stood with her back
to the stalls, her face lifted to the moon.
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