A colored stable-boy stood at Fan Tan's wicked-looking head and addressed in varied tone and temper a pair of flattened ears.
"Whoa! Baby-doll! Dat's ma honey—dat's ma petty chile— … Whoa! Yuh no-'coun' houn', yuh!" The first of the speech had been delivered soothingly, as the smith succeeded in getting a reluctant hind leg into his lap; the last was snorted out as the leg straightened suddenly and catapulted him into a corner of the shop, where he sat down heavily among some discarded horseshoes.
The smith arose, sweat and curses dripping from him.
"Chris!" said Blister, "it's a shame the way you treat that pore filly. She comes into yer dirty joint like a little lady, fur to get a new pair of shoes, 'n' you grabs her by the leg 'n' then cusses her when she won't stand fur it."
Part of the curses were now directed at Blister.
"Come on, Four Eyes," he said. "This ain't no place fur a minister's son."
"I'd like to stay and see the shoeing!" I protested, as he rose to go.
"What shoeing?" he asked incredulously. "You ain't meanin' a big strong guy like Chris manhandlin' a pore little filly? Come awn—I can't stand to see him abusin' her no more."
We wandered down to the big brown oval, and Blister, perching himself on the top rail of the fence, took out his stop-watch, although there were no horses on the track.
"What are you going to do with that?" I asked.