“What on earth am I to do with a child? My old blind aunt can’t see to herself and me—how is she to take care of another? But it is a temptation to be rid of you. How does the girl look?” The father was again at a loss. “Oh, you don’t know—what color is Kenny’s horse, Eclipse? How many hands high is he, and how old? How far can he run in ten minutes and thirteen seconds?” “Once for all—will you take the girl?” said the man whose life was exhausted by dissipation and excitement into an apathy that resembled patience. “She will have to go to the Almshouse if you don’t, and your blood is in her veins. She is your grandmother’s grandchild.” “I _would_ like you to be the only one of our blood who should die in the Almshouse; but I say again—what am I to do with the child? I can only take her as a servant.” “Make a slave of your own blood if you like,” replied the father, whose stupid apathy was pierced at last. “She had better serve you than serve the devil. She is a good, serviceable child.” “O, you know that, do you? No doubt you know all about that. Look you, Ned Evans, I owe you no service. I have earned every dollar I have, whilst you have squandered a fortune twice as large as mine, of your own, and another for your wife, whilst you have been a sponge to soak brandy, a gambler and a stool-pigeon for gamblers, and have made acquaintance with every horse-dealer and all the horse-flesh in the Union, and have murdered your wife by inches, till at the age of 29 years, an age when she should be as fresh as a new-blown rose, and with her fortune living as well as any lady in the land, you have done her the last and only kindness you ever did her—you have bought her a pine coffin, and have seen her buried. But though I know you ought to be hung, I will make a bargain with you. I will see you on board a vessel bound for New Orleans, with your passage paid, and take your child. You agree to go to New Orleans. When once you are there, I have no fear of you or your ghost ever appearing to me again. On these conditions I will take the child.” “When must I sail for New Orleans? I’ll go after Monday. The race with Eclipse and Black Bess comes off then. I have agreed to ride for Kenny. I know the horse better than anybody else. Besides, a fellow must keep his word.” “Very good,” said Charles, after a moment’s thought. “You _may_ break your neck, and save me the passage-money. I agree to that—any thing more?” “When may I bring the girl?” “To-morrow morning at 6 o’clock.” “That’s too early to wake her,” mumbled Ned. “Then, or not at all. You can keep sober one night, and get up in decent season one morning in your life, for the sake of getting your child a situation.”