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Thass whut we brought him oveh faw: to staht him in them Thawntum Stakes. I reckon he'll have to do the bes' he know how." "Are you going to bet on him?" "Says which?" Shanghai showed a double row of glistening ivories. "No, indeedy! Hawss got to show me befo' I leggo my small change! This Faro, he can't seem to win no mile races, so the boss he thinks he might do betteh in a long one.
By an' by when he's ready, we'll let him run four miles an' see how he finishes an' what the watch says." Little Mose rolled his eyes thoughtfully. "Seem like I ain't heard tell of but one fo'mile race," he hinted. "'Tain't run in Egypt neitheh. They runs it down round 'Frisco. The Thawntum Stakes is whut they calls it. Boss, you reckon Pharaoh kin pick up any corn in California?"
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.
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