"Aroun' Boone's paddock—what! Look here, little nigger, if you can ride that hoss to a winnin' I'll give you more money than you ever seen before."
"I'll ride him."
Patsy's heart was beating very wildly beneath his jacket. That horse. He knew that glossy coat. He knew that raw-boned frame and those flashing nostrils. That black horse there owed something to the orphan he had made.
The horse was to ride in the race before the last. Somehow out of odds and ends, his owner scraped together a suit and colors for Patsy. The colors were maroon and green, a curious combination. But then it was a curious horse, a curious rider, and a more curious combination that brought the two together.
Long before the time for the race Patsy went into the stall to become better acquainted with his horse. The animal turned its wild eyes upon him and neighed. He patted the long, slender head, and grinned as the horse stepped aside as gently as a lady.
"He sholy is full o' ginger," he said to the owner, whose name he had found to be Brackett.
"He'll show 'em a thing or two," laughed Brackett.
"His dam was a fast one," said Patsy, unconsciously.
Brackett whirled on him in a flash. "What do you know about his dam?" he asked.
The boy would have retracted, but it was too late. Stammeringly he told the story of his father's death and the horse's connection therewith.