"I got him outen yo' stall," said the stable hand.
"Don't care where yo' got him," persisted Gabe. "This ain't the colt I picked out. He ain't wide enough between the eyes."
"What's the argument about?" asked Pitkin, coming from the tackle-room.
"Gabe say thisyer ain't his colt," answered the stable hand.
"Where did you get him?" demanded Pitkin.
"Outen that stall yondeh," said the stable hand, pointing.
"That was where you put your colt, wasn't it?" asked Pitkin, turning to Uncle Gabe.
"Yes, suh, I put him there all right, but this ain't him."
"Oh, come now," laughed Pitkin, "you've been thinking it over and you're afraid you've picked the wrong one. Be a sport, Gabe; stick with your bargain."
"Been some monkey business done round yere," muttered the aged negro. "Been a li'l night walkin', mebbe. Boy, bring out that Sergeant Smith colt an' lemme cas' my eye oveh him once!"