“Your horse,” Nuhat replied. “Don’t you remember that you bought a horse? Your ten-share nigger horse that I sold you. I sneaked him out of the pasture, took him to Shongaloon to the races, and mopped up this money.”
“I been huntin’ fer dat hoss eve’ywhar,” Skeeter sighed. “I shore missed him. I’s had a lot of trouble ’bout dat hoss!”
“You won’t ever see him again,” Nuhat responded.
“How come?”
Nuhat hesitated a minute, looking sharply at Skeeter. He seemed undecided what to say in reply, but finally ventured:
“I didn’t own that horse in the first place. That horse’s real name is Springer, and its real owner is Old Griff.”
Skeeter opened his eyes until they were like china door-knobs. He wondered why he had not recognized the most famous race-horse in Louisiana, named Springer because of his peculiar springy gait.
“I borrowed Springer from Old Griff’s stable without requesting the loan of him,” Nuhat continued. “Old Griff came to Shongaloon after him. He was real nice about it, after I had talked to him about four hours. At first he wanted to put me in jail for horse-stealing.”
“My Lawd, white man!” Skeeter ranted. “Dat wus a awful risky thing to do. Glory to gracious! To think dat a nigger like me one time owned three-tenths of Springer—fo’-tenths—my Lawd, I owned all of him, fer dem niggers made me give deir money back!”
“That’s some glory for you, Skeeter!” Nuhat assured him.