The jockey reached a tentative finger toward Incubus' nose. "Good horse," he said. "Good Incubus."
"I think you're pretty nice yourself," Incubus murmured out of the side of her mouth. There was a stricken silence.
Reuben Godlove's eyes narrowed. "That jockey who rode her the other day told me about your ventriloquism," he informed Watson. "Seems like a pretty cheap trick if you ask me." The others murmured agreement, color flowing back into their faces.
"Anyhow, now that she's my horse," Godlove went on, taking possession of Incubus' bridle. "She's going to be trained serious."
"Now?" Incubus asked Watson.
"Later," he whispered back.
"That ain't funny, Watson," Godlove assured him. As he led Incubus off she looked back over her shoulder and winked.
"Mr. Watson," the jockey said, following him off the field, "you're not really a ventriloquist, are you? That horse talks, doesn't she?"
Watson nodded.
"You gonna let Godlove get away with her?" The boy's voice rose to a shrill squeak.