"Look, you star-spangled ignoramus, look," he yelled. "You own a horse
that's fit to win the Melbourne Cup or the American Derby, and you
don't know it. What do you want for him? Give you ten thousand for
him this minute--and I am not so certain that race hasn't hurt him."
"Oh, I don't want to sell Panchito. I can make this ranch pay ten
thousand dollars, but I cannot breed another Panchito on it."
"Farrel, if you refuse to sell me that horse I'm going to sit right
down here and weep. Son, I don't know a soul on earth who can use
twelve--yes, fifteen--thousand dollars handier than you can."
Don Mike smiled his lazy, tantalizing smile. "I might as well be broke
as the way I am," he protested. "What's a paltry fifteen thousand
dollars to a man who needs half a million? Mr. Parker, my horse is not
for sale at any price."
"You mean that?"
"Absolutely."
John Parker sighed. Since that distant day when he had decided that he
could afford such a luxury, his greatest delight had been in owning and
"fussing" with a few really great race-horses. He had owned some
famous sprinters, but his knowledge of the racing game had convinced
him that, could he but acquire Panchito, he would be the owner of a
true king of the turf. The assurance that, with all his great wealth,
this supreme delight was denied him, was a heavy blow.
Kay slipped her arm through his.
Pages:
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354