Incubus laughed richly. "Clout him in the crupper!" she chortled. "Oh, man!"
The day dawned when Incubus was to make her debut at Belmont. The odds on her were a hundred to one. Laughing softly to himself, Watson put five hundred dollars on her nose.
"You crazy, fella?" the seller said to him. "The horse to bet on is Godlove's Pamplemousse. He's a natural to win."
"Incubus is my own horse," Watson explained patiently.
"Oh, I guess it's like my kid. He plays the pianner and stinks but I gotta clap for him all the same."
"Why didn't you give her some hip reducing exercises," Godlove sneered as the jockey led Incubus out into the paddock. "She'll never get through the starting gate with that spread."
"Take it easy," Watson told her, as she reared. "Now, listen," he said to the jockey, a sullen young apprentice—all he could get—"she responds to direction very well. Talk to her. She practically understands."
"Oh, sure," the jockey jeered. "Is snookums gonna win the race for daddykins?"
"Ess," replied Incubus.