“I say, Gringo,” I interrupted, “I believe of all the things your master and mine have done out here, that automobile school is the best.”
“Right you are,” said the old dog. “These lads that my boss picks up out of prisons, and in the streets, won’t settle down to anything that isn’t pretty lively. They’ll break colts or hustle round a machine shop, but they’ll not stick to indoor work.”
“That breaking colts is new business to me,” I said. “How can you take a pale, weak, city lad and make him successful? I thought you had to have strong men.”
“Oh, that’s the old brute way,” said Gringo. “You begin now when coltie is young and tender. Hitch him up with a little bit of something dangling after him. Break him in gradually to something bigger. Lots of these city yaps haven’t ever had anything to like—anything decent, you know.”
“I understand,” I replied. “They’ve had nothing to love.”
“There’s one rogue,” said Gringo, “who sleeps in the boxstall with his pet colt, and ’pon my word, I’ve seen him with his arm round its neck. He’s a guttersnipe, and my boss will soon rout him out and make him sleep in a bed, but he ain’t too hasty with these low-life chaps.”
“What’s this new talk about jitney cars?” I asked.
“Our bosses have got a lot of second-hand cars, and are doctoring them for some of our lads who can run them about New York like a taxi-man does.”
“But a jitney is a five-cent fare thing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it pays. Catch my boss in anything that doesn’t speak up when it’s spoken to.”