"I ain't neveh talked yit, has I?"
"Well, don't pick this time to start; that's all."
That night the lights burned late in two tackle-rooms. In one of them Old Man Curry was bringing the judgment of Solomon down to date and fitting it to turf conditions; in the other Henry M. Pitkin was preparing code telegrams to certain business associates in Seattle, Portland, Butte, and San Francisco, for this was in the unregenerate days when pool rooms operated more or less openly in the West. Mr. Pitkin was getting ready for the annual clean-up.
The next morning he was on hand early enough to see General Duval return from an exercise gallop, and there was a small black boy on the colt's back.
"Come here, Gabe," said Pitkin. "Ain't that Curry's nigger jockey?"
"Yes, suh; that's Jockey Moseby Jones, suh."
"What's he doing around this stable?"
"He kind o' gittin' acquainted with the Gen'al, suh."
"Acquainted? What for?"
"Well, suh, they's a maiden race nex' Satu'day, an' I was thinkin' mebbe the Gen'al could win it if he gits a good ride. Jockey Jones didn't have no otheh engagement, suh, so I done hired him fo' the 'casion."