"No, I can't give you
one, old man--I wouldn't dare. But you shall have one after the race,
whether you win or not, can't he, Murty?"
"He can so," said Murty. "Wance he's gone round that thrack he can live
on the fat of the land--an' Billy, too. It's a dale aisier to get the
condition off a horse than off Billy. No man on this earth 'ud make a
black fellow see why he shouldn't have a good blow-out whenever it came
his way. Only that Providence made him skinny by nature, he'd be fat
as a porpoise this day. I've been watchin' over his meals like a mother
with a delicate baby these three weeks back; but what hope 'ud I have
with Christmas comin' in the way? He got away on me at Christmas dinner,
an' what he didn't ate in the way of turkey an puddin' wouldn't be worth
mentioning--an' him booked to ride to-day! 'Plenty' always did be his
motter, an' he lives up to it. So he's pounds overweight, an' no help
for it."
"Never mind, Murty," Jim said. "He knows the horse, and Shannon's able
to stand a few pounds extra. He'll give us a good run."
"I believe ye, Masther Jim," said Murty, beaming. "He'll not disgrace
us, an' if he don't win itself, then he'll not be far behind. There you
are, Billy--that's the bell for weighin'. Hurry up now, and get over to
the scales."
The black boy's lean figure, saddle and bridle on arm, threaded its way
through the crowd round the weighing enclosure--a little space fenced
off by barbed wire.
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