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Both were stained and smeared with grease; they were amply large. Chet did not bother to strip off his own blouse; he pulled on the other clothes over his own, and his face was alight with a grin of appreciation of Spud's attention to details as he took a daub of the grease, rubbed it on his hands, then passed them through his hair. "Yellah," Spud had said, but the description was no longer apt.
There were many who passed Chet's hiding place before a cautious whisper came to him and he saw a hand that thrust a roll of clothing around the edge of the bulletin board. "Put 'em on!" was the order of Spud. "And smear your yellah hair with the grease! Work fast, me bhoy!"
"'Na-ow, boys! sings out Pappy, 'there's the biggest little hoss ever you saw! Don't look at him any of you fellahs that wants a yellah dawg to win a cheap race with! He ain't in that class. Step forwahd, you breeders, an' grasp a golden opportunity! Send the best brood mares you've got to this little hoss . . . he's a giant! You hear me a giant! Ed Tumble, I'm talkin' to you!
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