His voice was warmer
in accent than even our Virginia speech. I saw him to be an Englishman.
"He is a bit nasty, that one"; he nodded his head toward Satan.
I grinned. "I know of only two men in Fairfax County I'd back to ride
him."
"Yourself and--"
"My father."
"By Jove! How old is your father, my good fellow?"
"Sixty, my good fellow," I replied. He laughed.
"Well," said he, "there's a third in Fairfax can ride him."
"Meaning yourself?"
He nodded carelessly. I did not share his confidence. "He's not a
saddler in any sense," said I. "We keep him for the farms."
"Oh, I say, my friend," he rejoined--"my name's Orme, Gordon Orme--I'm
just stopping here at the inn for a time, and I'm deucedly bored. I've
not had leg over a decent mount since I've been here, and if I might
ride this beggar, I'd be awfully obliged."
My jaw may have dropped at his words; I am not sure. It was not that he
called our little tavern an "inn." It was the name he gave me which
caused me to start.
"Orme," said I, "Mr. Gordon Orme? That was the name of the speaker the
other evening here at the church of the Methodists."
He nodded, smiling. "Don't let that trouble you," said he.
Pages:
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28