"The velocity of sound is good enough," Watson decided. "Look here, Nightmare, how'd you like to run in a race?" "A race?" Then the nightmare chuckled evilly to herself. "Oho, I see what you mean! But that wouldn't be cricket, would it?" "Cricket and horse-racing are two distinct sports!" Watson stated. Then, alluringly, "How'd you like to run down the track five lengths ahead of all the other horses, with the band playing and the crowd cheering? You'd be led into the winner's circle and they'd drape flowers all over you. People would yell 'Nightmare, Nightmare!' You'd be a popular figure, a celebrity. This way nobody knows you. You work at night, alone--unappreciated and unsung...." "That's so _true_," the nightmare murmured. "I really haven't received the adulation I deserve. Here I've done my job faithfully for years, scared thousands of people into fits--and what thanks do I get? _None!_" She sobbed. "Other people get all the credit and glory. I just work, work, work like a horse." "If you work for me," Watson said, "you'll only run a mile or so two or three times a week, get the finest of care _and_"--he pointed out significantly--"your nights will be your own." "Watson," the nightmare assured him, "I'm sold. When do we start?" "It isn't as easy as all that." Watson rose and paced up and down the room. "First of all you're not in the stud book. We'll have to forge some papers and pass you off as an Argentinian horse." "_Si, si, señor_," said the nightmare, wriggling with pleasure. "_Hablo muy bien el español. El estrivo de mi padre es en el establo de mi madre. Yo soy del Rancho Grande. Olé!_" "It isn't necessary for you to speak Spanish. As a matter of fact you won't get to do any talking at all. Horses don't talk." "But _I_ do," she said, wounded. "Where I come from I am known as a witty and distinguished raconteur. You know the one about the two geldings?" "Never you mind," he told her. "From now on you don't talk--except to me. Get it?" "Yeah," the nightmare agreed. "All right, Watson, I'll give it a whirl. I've always wanted to be in the public eye." For the sake of expediency Watson decided to give the nightmare, now officially registered as Incubus, her preliminary workouts himself--although he was no trainer. But then Incubus really needed no workouts. It merely looked well to take her around the track a few times. "Remember, Inky," he whispered, "not too fast. We want to give 'em a big surprise at the meet." "I dig you," she whispered back. Reuben Godlove, the well-known trainer, sauntered past and looked at Incubus. "My God," he told Watson, "what kind of a monster are you running! She's got a face like a gargoyle and a rear like a hippopotamus." "You want I should clout him in the crupper?" Incubus whispered. "No, no!" he whispered back. "I'm glad he doesn't take to you, because if he thought you were any good he might claim you." "Claim me? Whaddya mean?"