"The fools!" muttered the stranger. "If I could ride myself I'd show
'em!"

Patsy was gazing into the stall at the horse.

"What are you doing thaih," called the owner to him.

"Look hyeah, mistah," said Patsy, "ain't that a bluegrass hoss?"

"Of co'se it is, an' one o' the fastest that evah grazed."

"I'll ride that hoss, mistah."

"What do you know 'bout ridin'?"

"I used to gin'ally be' roun' Mistah Boone's paddock in Lexington,
an'--"

"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.