"Well, I knows a man whut wants a good boy. See that tree yondeh? That big one? Le's see who kin get there first!"
"It—it's pretty far, ain't it?"
"Shucks! Quahteh of a mile, mebbe. Come on!"
But it was nearer half a mile, and the three brisk sprints had told on the colt. Boot him never so hard, it was all Herman could do to keep Zanzibar on even terms with Mose's mount.
"You on'y foolin' 'ith me. He kin do betteh than that! We in the stretch now; shake him up!"
Zanzibar was shaken up for the fourth and last time—shaken up to the limit—and Mose was generous enough to say that the race was a dead heat.
As the boys brought the horses to a walk, another negro stepped out from behind a tree, a blanket on his arm. Mose slipped from the saddle and tossed the bridle to Shanghai.
"Ain't you goin' to ride back to the track?" demanded Herman.
"No. My boss, he always wants this skate blanketed an' led round a while.... Sufferin' mackerel, jock! What you goin' do 'ith that hawss? Shave him?"