"Fred," murmured the banker, "for all his fine looks I'm afraid
there is something wrong with your pony."

"What is it?" asked Fred, looking, as he felt, vastly troubled.

At that moment an automobile stopped out in the road.

"Beg your pardon, Mr. Dodge," called the chauffeur, "but are you
going to want me soon?"

"I want you at once," called back the banker, adding in a lower
voice to Fred:

"Flannery, my new chauffeur, was a coachman for many years. He's
a fine judge of horseflesh."

Flannery came up, an inquiring look on his face.

"I want you to look this pony over and tell me just what you think
of him," directed the banker.

Flannery went over the pony's "lines" with the air of an expert,
as, indeed, he was.

"Fine-looking little beast," said Flannery. "He has been well
fed and groomed."

Then he looked into the pony's mouth, examining the teeth with
great care.