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Updated: May 2, 2025
Ol 'Lisha jus' tip his to 'em otheh hawsses an' say: ''Scuse me, gen'elmen an' ladies, but I got mos' uhgent business down yondeh 'bout quahteh of a mile; 'em judges waitin' faw me. 'At's what he say, boss. Nothin' to it a-a-atall." "Give him plenty of room, Mose." "Sutny will. Won't git me nothin' stickin' on 'at rail.
Mose, my little nigger, sleeps here too, but I reckon you won't mind him. He's clean." Strange to say, it was Jockey Moseby Jones who minded. He minded very much, in plain English, waylaying Old Man Curry as he made the rounds of the stalls that night, lantern in hand. "This yer Squawkin' Henry, boss, he's a no-good hound. He's no good a-a-atall.
As the little negro drew near, the blackness of his visage was illuminated by a sudden flash of ivory. Elisha snorted and shook his head from side to side. Old Man Curry stepped forward and laid his hand upon the bridle. "Well, Mose?" said he. The small rider gurgled as he slipped from the saddle: "Nothin' to it, nothin' to it a-a-atall. 'Is 'Lisha bird, he's ready to fly.
"When you go talkin' 'bout Job an' Sol'mun an' 'em Bible folks, you got me ridin' on a track I don't know nothin' 'bout. Nothin' a-a-atall." It was Tuesday afternoon and little Mose was struggling into his riding boots.
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