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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?"
Yo' know, boss, I sort o' figgeh the Gen'al's got a mighty good chance nex' Satu'day in that secon' race. A mighty good chance." Pitkin sneered. "Going to bet on him, are you?" "No, suh; not 'less some people pay me whut they owes me." "You'd only blow it in if you had it," replied Pitkin. "The General's a darn bad race horse always was and always will be."
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