“Died years ago,” I said. “Got lost in the woods. Went out in the wilderness to hunt for his pedigree and never came home any more.”
“Well, well, that’s sad,” he muttered. “I swapped a colt to Major Kittrell for a black and measley jack—Simmons’ Jack by Leiper’s Creek. Can you tell me what became of him?”
“Why, yes, I’ve heard of that chap all my life. He took many premiums and died years ago, but he left a numberless progeny.”
“Where are they? I must have one,” he added, “when I start in again.”
“You’ll find them nearly all in the last Congress,” I said, “if it hasn’t adjourned yet.”
The old fellow smiled for the first time. “Now tell me,” he said, “when I left here in 1845 a chestnut gelding named James K. Polk held the world’s pacing record. They rode him a mile in 2:27; was that ever beaten?”
The crow laughed so loud I thought he’d fall off his perch.
“Not till last summer,” I said, with a wink. “A Hal horse called Star Pointer, a great grandson of the Kittrell colt, paced a mile in a little better than two minutes—”
“Look here, young man,” he broke in, “I want the truth! You know no horse ever did that. That’s flying. Who rode him?”