Old Man Hooper had certainly never appeared with it in public; the fame
of such a beast would have spread the breadth of the country.

During my inspection the wizened little man continued his work without
even a glance in my direction. He had on riding breeches and leather
gaiters, a plaid waistcoat and a peaked cap; which, when you think of
it, was to Arizona about as incongruous as the horse. I made several
conventional remarks of admiration, to which he paid not the slightest
attention. But I know a bait.

"I suppose you claim him as a Morgan," said I.

"Claim, is it!" grunted the little man, contemptuously.

"Well, the Morgan is not a real breed, anyway," I persisted. "A
sixty-fourth blood will get one registered. What does that amount to?"

The little man grunted again.

"Besides, though your animal is a good one, he is too short and straight
in the pasterns," said I, uttering sheer, rank, wild heresy.

After that we talked; at first heatedly, then argumentatively, then with
entire, enthusiastic agreement. I saw to that. Allowing yourself to be
converted from an absurd opinion is always a sure way to favour. We
ended with antiphonies of praise for this descendant of Justin Morgan.

"You're the only man in all this God-forsaken country that has the
sense of a Shanghai rooster!" cried the little man in a glow. "They ride
horses and they know naught of them; and they laugh at a horseman! Your