"Say, this dingus fur the hosses to run on is there like a duck. The guy that thinks it up has a grand bean! You leads a hoss on to it 'n' when it's ready you gives him the word. He starts to walk off, nothin' doin', he ain't goin' nowhere. You fans him with the bat. 'I'll be on my way,' he says. But he ain't got a chance—the faster he romps the faster the dingus rolls out from under him. He can run a forty shot, 'n' he don't go no further 'n I can throw a piano!
"After I've worked both dogs on the dingus fur a week or so, I tells Banks they know the game—'n' believe me, they did! Why, them ole hounds got so they begins to prance when they see the machine. They'd lay down 'n' ramble till they dropped if I lets 'em. They liked it fine!
"'I'll send Pixley around to-morrow,' says Banks. 'I want you to teach her the jockey's crouch when she's on her horse.'
"Next mawnin' I'm oilin' up the dingus when a chicken pokes her little head out the back door of the livery-stable.
"'Hello, kid,' she says to me.
"'Hello, girlie,' I says back.
"'Miss Pixley, if you please,' she says.
"'All right,' I says. ''N' while we're at it Mr. Jones'll suit me.'
"'Fade away,' she says, 'n' I see she's got a couple of dimples. 'Mr. Jones don't suit you.'
"'Make it Blister, then,' I says.