"Y-yes, sir," stammered the boy, rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand.
"Don't let him get hot, now!"
"No, sir; I won't."
"All right. Take him away!"
Johnson slapped Zanzibar on the shoulder, and the colt moved off in the gloom. His rider, whose other name was Herman Getz, huddled himself in the saddle and reflected on several things, including the hard life of an exercise boy, the perils of the dark, and the hot cup of coffee which he would get on his return.
Wrapped in these meditations, he had travelled some distance before he became aware of a dark shape in the road ahead. Coming closer, Herman saw that it was a horse and rider, evidently waiting for him.
"Howdy, Jockey Walsh!" called a voice.
The shortest cut to an exercise boy's heart is to address him as Jockey. Herman's heart warmed toward this stranger, and he drew alongside, trying to make out his features in the darkness.
"'Taint Walsh," said Herman, not without regret. "It's Getz."
"Jockey Getz? I don' seem to place you, jock. Where you been ridin'? East?"