“Of course he can do it,” assented Nye, confidently. “They say we’ve got to show ’em—or shut up our bragging over to Benedict’s—with the word being passed on from North to South, as never was!”
“All right,” said Evans. “We’ll show ’em. As long as Morgan’s alive we ain’t got no cause to shut up bragging.”
“Every man to ride his own horse,” Nye further explained.
“My legs are a leetle mite too long to be pretty,” laughed Evans. “But if Morgan can stand it, I can.”
True heard all this as he stood cropping grass near at hand. When they ceased speaking he came and rubbed his nose on Evans’ shoulder reassuringly, as he often did in his affectionate, demonstrative way.
At this moment the strangers joined them, and True recognized the Coxcomb as he swaggered forward, tapping his tall boots with a beautiful riding whip. Spurs gleamed on his heels and his insolent manner was in strong contrast to the simple bearing of the straightforward farmer’s.
At a glance, Morgan had seen it would be no great feat to beat the Ethan Allen horses, but he also saw with the same quick glance that the New York horse was to be reckoned with; he was evidently accustomed to successes on the course.
When the races were arranged, Evans removed the dangling plow-harness from True’s back. At sight of him without it the strangers seemed to be more amused than ever. Their contemptuous remarks affronted Evans.
“Fix up your bets,” he called out a moment later, impatiently, seeing how uncomfortable True was with his cumbersome saddle and coarse bit. “I want to get home-along.”
He spoke as if he were so sure of winning that it was but the question of a moment or so.