Pape pursued the advantage. “Sound looking critter you’re forking, officer. What you call him?”
“Hylan is his name—Traffic ‘B.’”
“That’s a new horse alias to me. Dot here does a polka when persuaded right. If Highland, now, does a fling, we might join them in a ‘brother’ act and put them on the stage.”
“You’ll be trespassing the dignity of our sacred mayor, as well as the people’s park, if you ain’t careful,” warned ’Donis Moore. “H-y-l-a-n is what I said was his name and he don’t own up to flings like you mean any more than our chief executive.”
The Westerner looked interested. “Named your nag after your boss, eh? Not an untactful idea at all. Hope hoss Hylan explains to Polkadot what fine company he’s in. First real acquaintance my poor brute’s met up with since I rode him out of the home corral and into a baggage car which I couldn’t hocus-pocus him into thinking was the latest in stables. I reckon it was too portable. He’ll be glad to know that he is starting at the top in equine circles—with His Honor the Mayor’s namesake.”
“You talk kind of discouraged, bo. Just what’s gone wrong?”
“Nothing’s gone wrong. You see, nothing’s started.”
“Then why don’t you start something?”
Pape’s attention looked much more arrested than his person. “Start something?”
“Sure. Something, say, along the partic’aler line of your ambitions.”