He called for a bucket of water and offered it to the dripping pony.

Marianne repressed a cry of warning: a drink might ruin a horse as hot as that.

But the gay rider permitted only a swallow and then removed the bucket from the reaching nose.
The old man who apparently sat all day and every day beside the door of the stable, only shifting from time to time to keep in shadow, passed his beard through his fist and spoke.

Every sound, even of the panting horse, came clearly to her through the open window.
"Kind of small but kind of trim, that hoss." "Not so small," said the rider.

"About fifteen two, I guess." "Measured him ?" "Never." "I'd say nigher onto fifteen one." "Bet my spurs to ten dollars that he's fifteen two; and that's good odds for you." The old man hesitated; but the stable boy was watching him with a grin.
"I'll take that bet if--" he began.
The rider snapped him up so quickly that Marianne was angered again.