"It isn't necessary for you to speak Spanish. As a matter of fact you won't get to do any talking at all. Horses don't talk."
"But I do," she said, wounded. "Where I come from I am known as a witty and distinguished raconteur. You know the one about the two geldings?"
"Never you mind," he told her. "From now on you don't talk—except to me. Get it?"
"Yeah," the nightmare agreed. "All right, Watson, I'll give it a whirl. I've always wanted to be in the public eye."
For the sake of expediency Watson decided to give the nightmare, now officially registered as Incubus, her preliminary workouts himself—although he was no trainer. But then Incubus really needed no workouts. It merely looked well to take her around the track a few times.
"Remember, Inky," he whispered, "not too fast. We want to give 'em a big surprise at the meet."
"I dig you," she whispered back.
Reuben Godlove, the well-known trainer, sauntered past and looked at Incubus. "My God," he told Watson, "what kind of a monster are you running! She's got a face like a gargoyle and a rear like a hippopotamus."
"You want I should clout him in the crupper?" Incubus whispered.
"No, no!" he whispered back. "I'm glad he doesn't take to you, because if he thought you were any good he might claim you."