“If it is”—­and Tisdale took the apple and felt in his pocket for his knife—­“the ground that grew the tree is a bonanza.”  He waited another moment, watching the changing color in her face, then turned and walked to the upper end of the caboose, where he deliberately selected a stool which he brought forward to the door.  Her confusion puzzled him.  Had she been about to confess, as he had at first conjectured, that Miss Armitage was an incognito used to satisfy the Press reporter and so avoid publicity?  It was clear she had thought better of the impulse, and he told himself, as he took the seat beside her and opened his knife, he was to have no more of her confidence than Jimmie Daniels.

CHAPTER VI

NIP AND TUCK

Bailey was right; the colts were beauties.  But at the time Tisdale arrived at the Kittitas stables, Lighter, having decided to drive them to North Yakima, was putting the pair to a smart buggy.  They were not for hire at double or treble the usual day rate.

“I want to sell this team,” the trader repeated flatly.  “I don’t want to winter ’em again, and my best chance to show ’em is now, down at the fair.  I can keep ’em in good shape, making it in two stages and resting ’em over night on the road, and be there by noon to-morrow.”

One of the horses reared, lifting the stable-boy off his feet, and Lighter sprang to take the bit in his powerful grasp.  “Steady, Tuck, steady!  Whoa, whoa, back now, back, steady, whoa!” The animal stood, frothing a little, his beautiful coat moist, every muscle tense.  “See there, now!  Ain’t he peaceable?  Nothing mean under his whole hide; just wants to go.  The other one will nip your fingers once in a while, if you don’t watch out, but he don’t mean anything, either; it’s all in fun.”

He gave his place to the boy again and stepped back to Tisdale’s side, still watching his team, while a second stableman hurried to fasten the traces.  “The fact is,” he went on, dropping his voice confidentially, “I’ve got wind of a customer.  He’s driving through from the Sound to the races in his machine.  A friend of mine wired me.  Mebbe you know him.  It’s one of those Morgansteins of Seattle; the young feller.  He saw these bays last year when they took the blue ribbon and said he’d keep an eye on ’em.  They were most too fly then for crowded streets and spinning around the boulevard ’mongst the automobiles, but they’re pretty well broke now.  Steady, Nip, whoa there!”

“But,” said Tisdale quietly, “young Morganstein met with an accident this morning in Snoqualmie Pass.  An axle was broken, and he was thrown out of his machine.  His leg was injured, and he took the train back to Seattle.  I happened to be on the eastbound at the siding where it all occurred.”

Lighter gave him a skeptical glance between narrowed lids.  “Then, if he can’t come himself, I guess he’ll send his man.  He told that friend of mine he counted on having another look at this team.”