“Gently, gently,” he said; “that’s what I want you to tell me. You see I haven’t heard a man say ‘horse’ for sixty years. In fact, you are the only horseman I’ve spoken to for that time. I seem to have lost my head—been in a trance. Tell me what became of old Stump.” I looked at him in astonishment. “How quickly that Lincoln County acts,” I thought, and then aloud: “Oh, Stump died forty-odd years ago.” “Dead forty years,” he exclaimed; “and what killed him?” “Oh, I don’t know. It’s been so long, but it seems I’ve heard he died trying to pace over a row of salt barrels and not break his gait.” “And did he do it? Old Stump? Did he break his gait?” he questioned, excitedly. “No—broke his neck,” I replied. “Good,” was his verdict. “I knew he’d break his neck before he’d break his gait. Gone at last! Poor Stump! And what became of Major Kittrell’s colt? Hal they call him. I knew him, too.” “Died years ago,” I said. “Got lost in the woods. Went out in the wilderness to hunt for his pedigree and never came home any more.” “Well, well, that’s sad,” he muttered. “I swapped a colt to Major Kittrell for a black and measley jack—Simmons’ Jack by Leiper’s Creek. Can you tell me what became of him?” “Why, yes, I’ve heard of that chap all my life. He took many premiums and died years ago, but he left a numberless progeny.” “Where are they? I must have one,” he added, “when I start in again.” “You’ll find them nearly all in the last Congress,” I said, “if it hasn’t adjourned yet.” The old fellow smiled for the first time. “Now tell me,” he said, “when I left here in 1845 a chestnut gelding named James K. Polk held the world’s pacing record. They rode him a mile in 2:27; was that ever beaten?” The crow laughed so loud I thought he’d fall off his perch. “Not till last summer,” I said, with a wink. “A Hal horse called Star Pointer, a great grandson of the Kittrell colt, paced a mile in a little better than two minutes—” “Look here, young man,” he broke in, “I want the truth! You know no horse ever did that. That’s flying. Who rode him?” “Why, we don’t ride horses now in harness races. He was driven to a bicycle sulky. A 2-year-old has paced in 2:07¾, and there are more Hals that have paced better than 2:10 than you could count up in an hour.” “What’s that?” he said, jumping up. “Don’t you know we never break a horse till he’s three? I can’t sit here, young man, and have you tell me them yarns any longer. Sixty years ago I was a horseman. I told yarns, too, and swapped horses and lied, and bragged, and run down other people’s stock, and well—I came to grief. And if you had been where I have been for sixty years you would be more careful what you say. Tell me the truth about some of them.” “Why, I thought everybody knew them,” I said. “I can’t imagine where you have been. There was the first great Hal racer, Little Brown Jug. His three-heat record of 2:11¾, 2:11¼, 2:12½, was, for nearly ten years, unbeaten.”