“Imported Learn——”
“I know. Dat 's de blood! Imported Leamington—Fanny Wash'n' by Revenue! He 'll do. Hit 's bred in de bone!”
“Did you ever see such bone?” the boy asked, running his hand over the big knee-joint.
The old trainer made no answer. He glanced furtively around to see that no one heard the question. Then he went on feeling the horse, inch by inch. Every muscle and sinew he ran his hand over, and each moment his face cleared up more and more. “He ain' nothin' but rock!” he said, straightening up. “Walk him off dyah, son”—with a wave of his hand—“walk him.”
It was as if he were speaking to a stable-boy. He had now forgotten all but the horse, but the young man understood.
He took the bridle, but the horse did not wait. At the first step he was up with him, with a long, swinging stride as springy as if he were made of rubber, keeping his muzzle close to his master's shoulder, and never tightening his rein. Now and then he threw up his head and gazed far over beyond the whitewashed fence toward a horse galloping away off on the curving track, as if there were where his interest lay.
“Straight as a plank,” muttered the old trainer, with a toss of his head. “'Minds me o' Planet. Got de quarters on him.—Bring him back!” he called.
As the young man returned, the older one asked, “Can he run?”
“Run! Want to see him move!”
Without waiting for an answer, he vaulted into the saddle and began to gather up the reins. The horse lifted his head and gathered himself together, but he did not move from his tracks.