On Our Selection by Steele Rudd
page 33 of 167 (19%)
page 33 of 167 (19%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
do you?"
Joe wished he had sixpence. About an hour afterwards Dad came staggering along arm-in-arm with another man--an old fencing-mate of his, so he made out. "Thur yar," he said, taking off his hat and striking Bess on the rump with it; "besh bred mare in the worl'." The fencing-mate looked at her, but did n't say anything; he could n't. "Eh?" Dad went on; "say sh'ain't? L'ere-ever y' name is--betcher pound sh'is." Then a jeering and laughing crowd gathered round, and Dave wished he had n't come to the races. "She ain't well," said a tall man to Dad--"short in her gallops." Then a short, bulky individual without whiskers shoved his face up into Dad's and asked him if Bess was a mare or a cow. Dad became excited, and only that old Anderson came forward and took him away there must have been a row. Anderson put him in the dray and drove it home to Shingle Hut. Dad reckons now that there is nothing in horse-racing, and declares it a fraud. He says, further, that an honest man, by training and racing a horse, is only helping to feed and fatten the rogues and vagabonds that live on the sport. |
|