I would not even take my horse out on it again." He lifted a foot of the black Spaniard, whose muzzle quivered whimperingly.

"All right, old boy!" he said, and stroked the head thrust down to him.

"It might have been worse." His voice was so gentle that Molly Wingate felt a vague sort of jealousy.

He might have taken her scorched hand in his, might at least have had some thought for her welfare.

He did speak at last as to that.
"What's in your wagon ?" he asked.