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This manager was a white man named Gallager, an' his life was made a burden, for he had t' train Sam for them there stunts, an' Sam didn't cotton to trainin' nonesoever. When he oughta be doin' it, he'd be off dancin', or drinkin', or pokerin', or somethin'. An' Gallager got sicker an' sicker of such doin's. "Well, bein' a Injun, Sam had a med'cine. It was a twig.
"'Well, you didn't win, did you? says Gallager. "'Um, um, says Sam, lookin' at th' twig. "'Then th' twig's no good, is it? asks Gallager, lookin' Sam firmly in th' eye, an' Sam returnin' th' look. "'NO! says Sam, an' he throws th' twig away." The cowpunchers did not believe this story. They did not think that an Indian can be cured of his medicine. But I know it is true, for I knew the Indian.
So Gallager lets Sam stay soft. "Along comes th' day o' th' race, an' Gallager hadn't done nothin' or said nothin', an' Sam runs an' loses, an' after it's all over Gallager goes t' him. "'Got your twig? he says. "'Uh, grunts Sam. "'Stick it in th' other feller's footprints? "'Uh. "'Got it in your shirt? "'Uh huh, says Sam, an' pulls out th' twig.
"Now, this here twig was one o' Gallager's greatest troubles. For Sam was always losin' it, or leavin' it behind, an' him or Gallager havin' t' go after it, an' races was havin' t' be held back, or put off, for Sam wouldn't run without that twig. So Gallager hated it. "Along comes a time when Sam is stacked up t' meet a corkin' good runner.
An' Sam was off gallivantin' 'round at dances, an' worse things, an' not trainin' none whatever. An' Gallager says t' himself, 'Here's where I cure that Injun of th' twig habit. You see, Sam was that soft from loafin', he couldn't have beat a mud turtle up a hill, so Gallager figgers Sam'll likely lose th' race, anyway, an' it'll be worth it t' get clear o' that infernal twig.
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