“I got all of that at first,” he said. “Now, look here—you go right on with that story and don’t you move or something might happen to you.”
I tried to laugh, but the cold sweat stood on my face. I shook, trembling, and looked to see how far it was to the water.
“Go on.” He glared. “Go on, or I’ll throw one of my eyes at you. Tell me the rest.”
“I—ah—ah—oh; well, there was a Brown Hal, the champion sire of his day, and he’s still living. He has more 2:10 race records to the credit of his get than any horse living or dead. Here is his 2:10 list.” I rattled along, trying to brace up and talk fast enough to think of something else except the uncanny thing before me. “Let me see: Star Pointer, Hal Dillard, Star Hal, Hal Chaffin, Elastic Pointer, Hal Braden, New Richmond, Storm, Brown Heels, Laurel and Silver Hal, and he sired the dam of—”
“That’s a damn lie!” he snorted; “no hoss could ’a’ done that!”
“Pardon me, Colonel,” I said, “and if you’ll excuse me a minute I’ll step up town and fetch a little more of that—.”
“Set down,” he said, “and go on with your lies.”
It was over eighty good feet to the water over that bluff, but for a moment I thought I’d try it.
“Look! Look!” he cried, pointing down the Nashville pike, way below us—“what’s that going along there without hosses?”