aised. Yo' mistiss 'll tell yo' dat," admonished
Jess, as Shashai reached forward and plucked his cap from his head. "Yo'
gimme dat cap, yo' hyer me!"

But Shashai's teeth held it firmly as he tossed it playfully up and
down, to Jess' secret delight in his pet's cleverness, though he
outwardly affected strong disapproval, after the manner of his race.

The horses were like playful, fearless children with him, and Jess was
bursting with pride at the result of his handiwork. And certainly, it
was worth looking upon, for no finer specimens of faultlessly groomed
horseflesh could have been found in the land.

"Yes, but think of the figure I'll be cutting when I take my young
ladies for a turn in the park or on the havenue," protested Dawson.
"Couldn't ye just knot hup them tails a bit, and mebbe braid that
fly-away mane down along the crest? If I'm bordered to take my young
ladies into the park or the city this hafternoon, I swear I'll hexpire
of mortification with them 'orses."

But this was too much for Jess. Dawson had at last touched the match,
and he caught the full force of Jess's wrath:

"Sp-sp-spire ob--ob mortification! Shamed ob dese hyer hosses! Frettin'
cause yo's gotter 'scort a pair of animals what's got pedigrees dat
reach back ter Noah's Ark eanemost! Why, dey blood kin make you-all's
look lak mullen sap, an' dey manners, even if dey ain' nothin' but
hosses, jist natchelly mak' yo' light clean outer sight. Sho'! Go long,
chile! Yo' gotter live some. Dar, it done struck five bells--_dat_ mean
ten-thirty, unerstan'--an' you's gotter git half-a-dozen ob yo'
bob-tailed nags ready fo' de ridin' lessons yo' tells me yo' gives de
yo'ng ladies at _six_ bells,--_dat's_ eleben o'clock,--Sattidy mawnin's.
I's pintedly cur'us fer ter see dem lessons, _I_ is. Lak 'nough befo' de
mawnin's ober _yo'll_ take a lesson yo'-self," and Jess ended his tirade
by throwing an arm across each silky neck and saying to his charges:

"Now, come 'long wid ole Jess, honeys. Yo's gwine enter high sassiety
presen'ly, and yo's gotter do Severndale credit. Yo' hyer me?"

Poor Dawson was decidedly perturbed in his mind. Hitherto he had been
the autocrat of "form and fashion," the absolute dictator of the proper
style. Under his ordering, horses had been bought for the school,
cropped, docked and trimmed on the most approved lines, until nothing
but a hopeless, forlorn stubble indicated that they had once boasted
manes or forelocks, and