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Riders threaded through alleys and cross streets; lamps flared up in house windows. There was a pounding on doors, and shouted greetings. Fire made a splash of angry color at the depot, to be answered with similar blazes at the warehouses. "Spur up those crowbaits of yours, boys!" Quirk rounded up the scouts. "We're out for horses only the best, remember that!"
"It's my business to find what produces sickness as well as to provide cures," Carey responded as he stepped from his buggy to tie his horses. "Take him in the house, Pryor, while I stable his crowbaits," Jim said, patting one of the doctor's well groomed horses the while. "I hope you will stay, too," Horace Carey said to Pryor Gaines.
But they ain't fit for driving. Jim Courteval, who lives up the road a piece, now he's got some hossflesh wuth owning. But our old crowbaits ain't nothing." "Don't you love to take care of them and brush them and all that?" cried the girl, eagerly. "Not much I don't! I reckon if old Sam and Lightfoot felt a currycomb once more they'd have a fit. And you ought to see our cow! Gee!
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