spoke as follows:

"Seems to me the case is just this: here you are, a young blooded colt,
not broken to either saddle or thills--here you are whinnying around a
market where they want nothing but dray-hosses. People look shy at
you--usually do at a strange hoss. Few know good p'ints when they see
'em. When they find you ain't broke in to nothin', they want you to
work for nothin'. I see how you can't do this. And yet fodder is runnin'
short, and you must do somethin'."

Bill, having dealt in live-stock all his life, naturally clothed his
thoughts in language drawn from familiar objects, and Dennis, miserable
as he was, half smiled at the close parallel run between him and a
young, useless colt; but he only said, "I don't think there is a
cart-horse in all Chicago that feels more broken down and dispirited
than I do to-night."

"That may all be, too," said Bill; "but you'd feel a little oats mighty
quick, and a cart-hoss wouldn't. But I know the p'ints, whether it's
a man or a hoss; you'd take kindly to work of the right sort, and it
would pay any one to take you at yer own terms, but you can't make 'em
see it. If I was in a situation to take you, I'd do it in a minute.
Hang it all! I can't do much for you, either. I took a drop too much
in Cleveland t'other night, and some of the folks in the house looked
over my pocket-book and left me just enough to get home with."

Dennis shook his head reproachfully and was about to speak.

"I know what you're going to say," said Bill, heading off another
temperance lecture. "I'll take a drink by and by, and think over what