Crimmins eyed him askance as he entered.

"Goin' for a canter, sir? Ho, yuss; this 'ere is the 'orse the master
said as 'ow you were to ride, sir. It don't matter which side yeh
get on. 'E's as stiddy-goin' as a alarum clock. Ho, yuss. I calls 'im
Waterbury Watch--partly because I 'appen to 'ave a brother wot's trainer
for Mr. Waterbury, the turfman, sir."

Crimmins shifted his cud with great satisfaction at this uninterrupted
flow of loquacity and brilliant humor. Garrison was looking the animal
over instinctively, his hands running from hock to withers and back
again.

"How old is he?" he asked absently.

"Three years, sir. Ho, yuss. Thoroughbred. Cast-off from the Duryea
stable. By Sysonby out of Hamburg Belle. Won the Brighton Beach
overnight sweepstakes in nineteen an' four. Ho, yuss. Just a little off
his oats, but a bloomin' good 'orse."

Garrison turned, speaking mechanically. "I wonder do you think I'm a
fool! Sysonby himself won the Brighton sweepstakes in nineteen-four.
It was the beginning of his racing career, and an easy win. This animal
here is a plug; an out-and-out plug of the first water. He never
saw Hamburg Belle or Sysonby--they never mated. This plug's a
seven-year-old, and he couldn't do seven furlongs in seven weeks. He
never was class, and never could be. I don't want to ride a cow, I want
a horse. Give me that two-year-old black filly with the big shoulders.
Whose is she?"