"Tollable ole," replied the negro; "yes, suh." "An' if you got this hoss away from Pitkin, what would you do with him?" "Sell him," was the prompt reply. "Oho! Then it ain't the hoss you want so much as the money, eh?" "Mist' Curry, that colt'd fetch enough to sen' me home _right_. I got two sons in Baltimo', an' they been wantin' me to quit the racin' business, but I couldn't quit it broke. No, suh, I couldn't, so I jus' been hangin' on tooth an' toenail like the sayin' is, hopin' I'd git a stake somehow." "And you don't much care _how_ you quit, so long's you quit; is that it?" "Well, suh, I don't want no trouble if I kin he'p it, but if I has to fight my way loose from Pitkin I'll do it." There was another long silence while Gabe waited. "I reckon Solomon would have his hands full straightenin' out this tangle," said Old Man Curry at last. "You can't break into the stall an' take that hoss away from Pitkin, because he'd have you arrested. And then, of course, he's got him registered in his name an' runnin' in his colours--that's another thing we've got to take into consideration. I reckon we better set quiet a few days an' study. You'll know whenever this Sergeant hoss is entered in a race, won't you?" "Yes, suh; I'm boun' to know ahead o' time, suh." "All right. Go on back to work an' don't quarrel with Pitkin. Don't let him know that you've found out anything, an' keep me posted on Sergeant Smith. Might be a good thing if we knew when Pitkin is goin' to bet on him. He's been cheatin' with that hoss lately." "He's always cheatin', suh. Yo'--yo' think they's a way to--to----" "There's always a way, Gabe," answered Old Man Curry. "The main thing is to find it." "That's my hoss by right," said the negro, with a trace of stubbornness in his tone. "An' the world is your oyster," responded Curry, "but you can't go bustin' into it with dynamite. You got to open an oyster, careful. Now go on back to your barn and do as I tell you. Understand?" "Yes, suh, an' thank yo' kin'ly, suh." Pitkin's bandaged head brought him little sympathy--in fact, the general opinion seemed to be that Mulligan had not hit him quite hard enough to do the community any good. Certainly the scantling did not improve his temper, and Pitkin made life a burden to old Gabe and the two black stable hands. Gabe swallowed the abuse with a patient smile, but the two roustabouts muttered to themselves and eyed their employer with malevolence. They had also been missing pay days. One evening Pitkin stuck his head out of the door of the tackle-room and called for his trainer. "Gabe! Oh, Gabe! Now where is that good-for-nothing old nigger?" "Comin', suh, comin'," answered Gabe, shuffling along the line of stalls. "Yo' want to see me, boss?" "Shut the door behind you," growled Pitkin. "I was thinking it was about time we cut this Sergeant Smith colt loose." "Yes, suh," answered Gabe. "He's ready to go, boss." "How good is he?" demanded Pitkin.