"How fast can you go?"
"Well, I'll be honest with you. Down—where I come from I'm known as 'Old Slow Poke.' I can't move much faster than speed of sound while all the other girls have the velocity of light. But that's the way it is—some are born with brains and some with speed."
"The velocity of sound is good enough," Watson decided. "Look here, Nightmare, how'd you like to run in a race?"
"A race?" Then the nightmare chuckled evilly to herself. "Oho, I see what you mean! But that wouldn't be cricket, would it?"
"Cricket and horse-racing are two distinct sports!" Watson stated. Then, alluringly, "How'd you like to run down the track five lengths ahead of all the other horses, with the band playing and the crowd cheering? You'd be led into the winner's circle and they'd drape flowers all over you. People would yell 'Nightmare, Nightmare!' You'd be a popular figure, a celebrity. This way nobody knows you. You work at night, alone—unappreciated and unsung...."
"That's so true," the nightmare murmured. "I really haven't received the adulation I deserve. Here I've done my job faithfully for years, scared thousands of people into fits—and what thanks do I get? None!" She sobbed. "Other people get all the credit and glory. I just work, work, work like a horse."
"If you work for me," Watson said, "you'll only run a mile or so two or three times a week, get the finest of care and"—he pointed out significantly—"your nights will be your own."
"Watson," the nightmare assured him, "I'm sold. When do we start?"
"It isn't as easy as all that." Watson rose and paced up and down the room. "First of all you're not in the stud book. We'll have to forge some papers and pass you off as an Argentinian horse."
"Si, si, señor," said the nightmare, wriggling with pleasure. "Hablo muy bien el español. El estrivo de mi padre es en el establo de mi madre. Yo soy del Rancho Grande. Olé!"