His tone irritated the Coxcomb. He came forward.
“Odd brute that,” he sneered, “to put against horses that have won on The Plains of Abraham. But I suppose the fun of the races will make up to you for your losses. Why, this is nothing but a Canadian scrub!”
True shook himself in disgust. To be called a striding Canadian. A horse who travels with purposed exertion, while he glided over the ground with scarce an effort. A Canadian scrub, indeed, a horse whose thick nostrils speak of low birth and whose flat sides and thick hair seem made for much cold and beating; and he, with the blood of the South in his veins!
It was too much for Evans.
“This is no Canadian,” he contradicted, shortly; “this horse is a Thoroughbred.”
The Coxcomb laughed derisively, and flicked his boot.
“None the less, the brute would answer to the order ‘Marches donc!’… Not so, my friend?” He struck True on the side with his keen whip, making him spring forward.
“What said I?” he scoffed with a shrug. “The horse does not lie about his pedigree.”
Ignoring the insulting inference, Evans quieted Morgan with a caress and cried:
“For shame, sir! Would you have me strike your horse thus?”