The Ethan Allen horses were quieter and gave the impression of reserve power. All three were stylish and well cared for, while Morgan was ungroomed and neglected; there were a few burrs in his heavy black tail, too, which seemed to strike the New Yorkers as extremely amusing. The Morgan, himself, however, had never seen anything very comical about a mere cockle-burr, and was nettled at their foolish remarks and jeers. “Yes,” repeated Nye, “fresh as flowers, and fed to the top-notch. Those men have a fine plan to take us down a peg or two.” “Is it a clean, fair race, think you?” asked Evans, under his breath. “It’s no clean and no fair race,” Nye gave reply, indignantly, and in the same low, resentful tone he added,[9] “they want our horse to run three separate races, one after the other, and him all tuckered out with a day’s plowing.” “It ain’t fair,” agreed Evans, vehemently. “My horse ain’t only tired, but my saddle and bridle, that I left over here t’other day, ain’t light and easy like theirs. It ain’t reasonable…. Not but what Morgan can do it,” he added, quickly, “but it’s hard on him.” “Of course he can do it,” assented Nye, confidently. “They say we’ve got to show ’em--or shut up our bragging over to Benedict’s--with the word being passed on from North to South, as never was!” “All right,” said Evans. “We’ll show ’em. As long as Morgan’s alive we ain’t got no cause to shut up bragging.” “Every man to ride his own horse,” Nye further explained. “My legs are a leetle mite too long to be pretty,” laughed Evans. “But if Morgan can stand it, I can.” True heard all this as he stood cropping grass near at hand. When they ceased speaking he came and rubbed his nose on Evans’ shoulder reassuringly, as he often did in his affectionate, demonstrative way. At this moment the strangers joined them, and True recognized the Coxcomb as he swaggered forward, tapping his tall boots with a beautiful riding whip. Spurs gleamed on his heels and his insolent manner was in strong contrast to the simple bearing of the straightforward farmer’s. At a glance, Morgan had seen it would be no great feat to beat the Ethan Allen horses, but he also saw with the same quick glance that the New York horse was to be reckoned with; he was evidently accustomed to successes on the course. When the races were arranged, Evans removed the dangling plow-harness from True’s back. At sight of him without it the strangers seemed to be more amused than ever. Their contemptuous remarks affronted Evans. “Fix up your bets,” he called out a moment later, impatiently, seeing how uncomfortable True was with his cumbersome saddle and coarse bit. “I want to get home-along.” He spoke as if he were so sure of winning that it was but the question of a moment or so. His tone irritated the Coxcomb. He came forward.