Jess gave a derisive snort. He had lived a good many more years than Dawson and his experience with horseflesh was an exceptionally wide one.
"Well, yo'-all needn't be a troublin' yo' sperrits 'bout de gait ob dese hyer horses. Dey kin set de pace fo' all dat truck yonder, an' don' yo' fergit dat fac'. Yo's got some fairly-middlin'-good ones hyer," and Jess nodded toward the stalls, "but dey's just de onery class, not de quality. No-siree. Now, honey, don' yo' go fer ter git perjectin' none cause I'se praisin' yo' to yo' face. Tain't good manners fer ter take notice when yo's praised. Yo' mistiss 'll tell yo' dat," admonished Jess, as Shashai reached forward and plucked his cap from his head. "Yo' gimme dat cap, yo' hyer me!"
But Shashai's teeth held it firmly as he tossed it playfully up and down, to Jess' secret delight in his pet's cleverness, though he outwardly affected strong disapproval, after the manner of his race.
The horses were like playful, fearless children with him, and Jess was bursting with pride at the result of his handiwork. And certainly, it was worth looking upon, for no finer specimens of faultlessly groomed horseflesh could have been found in the land.
"Yes, but think of the figure I'll be cutting when I take my young ladies for a turn in the park or on the havenue," protested Dawson. "Couldn't ye just knot hup them tails a bit, and mebbe braid that fly-away mane down along the crest? If I'm bordered to take my young ladies into the park or the city this hafternoon, I swear I'll hexpire of mortification with them 'orses."
But this was too much for Jess. Dawson had at last touched the match, and he caught the full force of Jess's wrath:
"Sp-sp-spire ob—ob mortification! Shamed ob dese hyer hosses! Frettin' cause yo's gotter 'scort a pair of animals what's got pedigrees dat reach back ter Noah's Ark eanemost! Why, dey blood kin make you-all's look lak mullen sap, an' dey manners, even if dey ain' nothin' but hosses, jist natchelly mak' yo' light clean outer sight. Sho'! Go long, chile! Yo' gotter live some. Dar, it done struck five bells—dat mean ten-thirty, unerstan'—an' you's gotter git half-a-dozen ob yo' bob-tailed nags ready fo' de ridin' lessons yo' tells me yo' gives de yo'ng ladies at six bells,—dat's eleben o'clock,—Sattidy mawnin's. I's pintedly cur'us fer ter see dem lessons, I is. Lak 'nough befo' de mawnin's ober yo'll take a lesson yo'-self," and Jess ended his tirade by throwing an arm across each silky neck and saying to his charges:
"Now, come 'long wid ole Jess, honeys. Yo's gwine enter high sassiety presen'ly, and yo's gotter do Severndale credit. Yo' hyer me?"
Poor Dawson was decidedly perturbed in his mind. Hitherto he had been the autocrat of "form and fashion," the absolute dictator of the proper style. Under his ordering, horses had been bought for the school, cropped, docked and trimmed on the most approved lines, until nothing but a hopeless, forlorn stubble indicated that they had once boasted manes or forelocks, and poor little affairs like whisk-brooms served for tails, or rather did not serve, especially in fly-time. But that was a minor consideration. Fashion's dictates were obeyed.
With the aid of his grooms Dawson soon had five horses saddled and bridled, curbs rattling and saddles creaking. There were only two cross saddles. Then he turned to Jess.