“Oh, go an’ unscrew yer splints! You’re talkin’ through yer bandages,” said Muldoon, with a horse-laugh. “Dere ain’t no loose-box for de simple child o’ nature on de Belt Line, wid de _Paris_ comin’ in an’ de _Teutonic_ goin’ out, an’ de trucks an’ de coupé’s sayin’ things, an’ de heavy freight movin’ down fer de Boston boat ’bout t’ree o’clock of an August afternoon, in de middle of a hot wave when de fat Kanucks an’ Western horses drops dead on de block. De simple child o’ nature had better chase himself inter de water. Every man at de end of his lines is mad or loaded or silly, an’ de cop’s madder an’ loadeder an’ sillier than de rest. Dey all take it outer de horses. Dere’s no wavin’ brooks ner ripplin’ grass on de Belt Line. Run her out on de cobbles wid de sparks flyin’, an’ stop when de cop slugs you on de bone o’ yer nose. Dat’s N’York; see? “I was always told s’ciety in Noo York was dreffle refined an’ high-toned,” said Tuck. “We’re lookin’ to go there one o’ these days, Nip an’ me.” “Oh, _you_ won’t see no Belt business where you’ll go, miss. De man dat wants you’ll want you bad, an’ he’ll summer you on Long Island er at Newport, wid a winky-pinky silver harness an’ an English coachman. You’ll make a star-hitch, you an’ yer brother, miss. But I guess you won’t have no nice smooth bar bit. Dey checks ’em, an’ dey bangs deir tails, an’ dey bits ’em, de city folk, an’ dey says it’s English, ye know, an’ dey darsen’t cut a horse loose ’ca’se o’ de cops. N’ York’s no place fer a horse, ’less he’s on de Belt, an’ can go round wid de boys. Wisht _I_ was in de Fire Department!” “But did you never stop to consider the degradin’ servitood of it all?” said the yellow horse. “You don’t stop on de Belt, cully. You’re stopped. An’ we was all in de servitood business, man an’ horse, an’ Jimmy dat sold de papers. Guess de passengers weren’t out to grass neither, by de way dey acted. I done my turn, an’ I’m none o’ Barnum’s crowd; but any horse dat’s worked on de Belt four years don’t train wid no simple child o’ nature—not by de whole length o’ N’ York.” “But can it be possible that with your experience, and at your time of life, you do not believe that all horses are free and equal?” said the yellow horse. “Not till they’re dead,” Muldoon answered quietly. “An’ den it depends on de gross total o’ buttons an’ mucilage dey gits outer youse at Barren Island.” “They tell me you’re a prominent philosopher.” The yellow horse turned to Marcus. “Can _you_ deny a basic and pivotal statement such as this?” “I don’t deny anythin’,” said Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, cautiously; “but ef you _ast_ me, I should say ’twuz more different sorts o’ clipped oats of a lie than anythin’ I’ve had my teeth into sence I wuz foaled.” “Are you a horse?” said the yellow horse. “Them that knows me best ’low I am.” “Ain’t _I_ a horse?” “Yep; one kind of.” “Then ain’t you an’ me equal?”