Pitkin, in the course of business dealings with a small breeding farm, had picked up two bay colts. They were as like as two peas with every honest right to the resemblance, for they were half-brothers by the same sire, and there was barely a week's difference in their ages. Uncle Gabe looked the baby racers over very carefully before giving it as his opinion that no twins were ever more alike in appearance. "They own mammies would have a li'l trouble tellin' them colts apaht," said the negro. "Can you tell them apart?" asked Pitkin. Gabe grinned. "Yes, suh," he answered. "They _is_ a difference." Pitkin looked at Gabe sharply. He knew that the old negro felt one colt to be better than the other. "All right then," he said after a moment. "Tell you what I'll do. You've been deviling me for that five hundred dollars till I'm sick of listening to you. Take your pick of the two colts and call it square. How does that strike you?" Uncle Gabe deliberated for some time. The five hundred dollars meant a great deal to him, but the cash value of a debt is regulated somewhat by the sort of man who owes it and Gabe realized that this point was worthy of consideration. On the other hand, should the colt turn out well, he would be worth several times five hundred dollars. "Don't wait till you get 'em in training," said Pitkin. "A blind man could pick the best one then. Take the colt that looks good to you _now_ and let it go at that." That evening Uncle Gabe made his selection and immediately announced that he intended to name his colt General Duval. "Good enough," said Pitkin, "and just to carry out the soldier idea, I'll call the other one Sergeant Smith. Put the General in that end stall, away from the others." The next morning Gabe sent one of the stable hands to get his colt, and when the animal appeared the old trainer's lower lip began to droop, but he said nothing until after he had made a thorough examination. "Boy, you done brought me the wrong colt," said he. "This ain't Gen'al Duval." "I got him outen yo' stall," said the stable hand. "Don't care where yo' got him," persisted Gabe. "This ain't the colt I picked out. He ain't wide enough between the eyes." "What's the argument about?" asked Pitkin, coming from the tackle-room. "Gabe say thisyer ain't his colt," answered the stable hand. "Where did you get him?" demanded Pitkin. "Outen that stall yondeh," said the stable hand, pointing. "That was where you put your colt, wasn't it?" asked Pitkin, turning to Uncle Gabe. "Yes, suh, I put him there all right, but this ain't him." "Oh, come now," laughed Pitkin, "you've been thinking it over and you're afraid you've picked the wrong one. Be a sport, Gabe; stick with your bargain." "Been some monkey business done round yere," muttered the aged negro. "Been a li'l night walkin', mebbe. Boy, bring out that Sergeant Smith colt an' lemme cas' my eye oveh him once!"