"You've got a horse outside."

For an instant Blair's gaunt face darkened at the insult; he grew almost
dignified; but the drink curse had too strong a grip upon him and the
odor of whiskey was in the air.

"Yes, I've a good horse," he said slowly. "What'll you give for him?"

"Seventy dollars."

"He's a good horse, worth a hundred."

"I'm glad of that, but I'm not dealing in horses. I make the offer just
to oblige you. Besides, as you said, it's an off season."

"You won't give me more?"

"No."

Blair looked impotently about the room, but his former companions had
returned to their game. Filling in the silence, the dull clatter of
chips mingled with the drunken snores of the man on the floor.

"Very well, give me forty," he said at last.

"You accept, do you?"

"Yes."

"All right."