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"But, boss, they ain't no two-mile races in thisyer part o' the country!" "Keep on, an' you'll talk yourself into a raw-hidin' yet, little black boy. I ain't askin' you to tell me 'bout the races on the jungle tracks. All you got to think about is can you handle as much hoss as this over a distance of ground.
It was one of the black stable hands who recalled Pitkin to a sense of his responsibilities. The roustabout approached, leading a bay colt. "Boss, is Gabe done quit us?" "Huh?" grunted Pitkin, emerging from a deep-brown study. "Yes, he's gone, confound him!" "Well, he lef thisyer Gen'al Duval hoss behin' him. The Gen'al's cooled out now; whut you want me to do with him?"
"Boss," panted little Mose, "I kin do everything to thisyer hoss but stop him. He sutny do love to run once he git goin'. All the way down the stretch he was asayin' to me: 'Come on, jock! Lemme go round again! Yes, suh, he was beggin' me faw 'notheh mile!" "Ah-hah," said Old Man Curry. "That's the way it looked to me. Well, to-morrow we'll let him do that extra mile, but we'll get up earlier.
"Boy, you done brought me the wrong colt," said he. "This ain't Gen'al Duval." "I got him outen yo' stall," said the stable hand. "Don't care where yo' got him," persisted Gabe. "This ain't the colt I picked out. He ain't wide enough between the eyes." "What's the argument about?" asked Pitkin, coming from the tackle-room. "Gabe say thisyer ain't his colt," answered the stable hand.
The negro Shanghai proved more loquacious. He trudged at the end of the line leading a big hammer-headed brute which he often addressed as "Faro." "Who owns these hawsses?" repeated Shanghai. "Mist' Curry thass him in front he owns 'em. We got here jus' in time, I reckon. Thisyer hawss whut I'm leadin', he goes in that Thawntum Stakes to-day." "Nix!" said the outside man.
If I was goin' after corn, I don't believe I'd say so." Mose listened, nodding from time to time. "Boss," said he earnestly, "I sutny always did want to see whut thisyer Egypt looks like. Outside of that, I neveh heard nothin', I don't know nothin', an' I can't tell nothin'. Beginnin' now, a clam has got me beat in a talkin' match!" Old Man Curry smiled and combed his long, white beard.