Sloan spoke to the mare.  He had held her back as they jolted over the worn pavement of cedar blocks, but now they had reached the city limits and were starting out upon the rain-beaten sand.  She was a tall, clean-limbed sorrel, a Kentucky-bred Morgan, and as she settled into her stride, Bannon watched her admiringly.  Her wet flanks had the dull sheen of bronze.

“Don’t tell me,” said Sloan, “that Michigan roads are no good for driving.  You never had anything finer than this in your life.”  They sped along as on velvet, noiselessly save when their wheels sliced through standing pools of water.  “She can keep this up till further notice, I suppose,” said Bannon.  Sloan nodded.

Soon they reached the first crossroad.  There was a general store at one corner, and, opposite, a blacksmith’s shop.  Sloan pulled up and Bannon sprang out with a hammer, a mouthful of tacks, and three or four of the posters.  He put them up on the sheltered side of conspicuous trees, left one with the storekeeper, and another with the smith.  Then they drove on.

They made no pretence at conversation.  Bannon seemed asleep save that he was always ready with his hammer and his posters whenever Sloan halted the mare.  The west wind freshened as the evening came on and dashed fine, sleety rain into their faces.  Bannon huddled his wet coat closer about him.  Sloan put the reins between his knees and pulled on a pair of heavy gloves.

It had been dark for half an hour—­Bannon could hardly distinguish the moving figure of the mare—­when Sloan spoke to her and drew her to a walk.  Bannon reached for his hammer.  “No crossroad here,” said Sloan.  “Bridge out of repair.  We’ve got to fetch a circle here up to where she can wade it.”

“Hold on,” said Bannon sharply.  “Let me get out.”

“Don’t be scared.  We’ll make it all right.”

“We!  Yes, but will fifteen hundred feet of lumber make it?  I want to take a look.”

He splashed forward in the dark, but soon returned.  “It’s nothing that can’t be fixed in two hours.  Where’s the nearest farmhouse?”

“Fifty rods up the road to your right.”

Again Bannon disappeared.  Presently Sloan heard the deep challenge of a big dog.  He backed the buggy around up against the wind so that he could have shelter while he waited.  Then he pulled a spare blanket from under the seat and threw it over the mare.  At the end of twenty minutes, he saw a lantern bobbing toward him.

The big farmer who accompanied Bannon held the lantern high and looked over the mare.  “It’s her all right,” he said.  Then he turned so that the light shone full in Sloan’s face.  “Good evening, Mr. Sloan,” he said.  “You’ll excuse me, but is what this gentleman tells me all straight?”

“Guess it is,” Sloan smiled.  “I’d bank on him myself.”

The farmer nodded with satisfaction.  “All right then, Mr.
What’s-your-name.  I’ll have it done for you.”