hills, an' no invijjus distinctions o' track an' pedigree:"

"What in stables 'jer call an invijjus distinction?" said the
Deacon, stiffly.

"Fer one thing, bein' a bloated, pampered trotter jest because
you happen to be raised that way, an' couldn't no more help
trottin' than eatin'."

"Do ye know anythin' about trotters?" said the Deacon.

"I've seen 'em trot. That was enough for me. I don't want to know
any more. Trottin' 's immoral."

"Waal, I'll tell you this much. They don't bloat, an' they don't
pamp - much. I don't hold out to be no trotter myself, though I
am free to say I had hopes that way - onct. But I do say, fer
I've seen 'em trained, that a trotter don't trot with his feet:
he trots with his head; an' he does more work - ef you know what
that is - in a week than you er your sire ever done in all your
lives. He's everlastingly at it, a trotter is; an' when he
isn't, he's studyin' haow. You seen 'em trot? Much you hev! You
was hitched to a rail, back o' the stand, in a buckboard with a
soap-box nailed on the slats, an' a frowzy buff'lo atop, while
your man peddled rum fer lemonade to little boys as thought they
was actin' manly, till you was both run off the track an' jailed
-you intoed, shufflin', sway-backed, wind-suckin' skate, you!"

"Don't get het up, Deacon," said Tweezy, quietly. "Now, suh,
would you consider a fox-trot, an' single-foot, an' rack, an'