ed your mind overnight, I can't help that, can I?"

"My mind ain't changed none," replied old Gabe, "but this colt, he's
changed, suh."

"Who would change him on you, eh? Do you think _I'd_ do it? Is that
what you're getting at?"

"Why--why, no suh, no, but----"

"Then shut up! You're always beefing about something or other, always
kicking! I don't want to hear any more out of you, understand? Shut
up!"

"Yes, suh," answered old Gabe, touching his hat, "all the same I got
a right to my opinion, boss."

Whatever his opinion, Gabe proceeded to train the two colts in the
usual manner, and before long it was plain to everyone connected with
the Pitkin establishment that the striking likeness did not extend to
track promise and performance. Sergeant Smith developed into a
high-class piece of racing property; General Duval was not worth his
oats. Sergeant Smith won some baby races in impressive fashion and
was immediately tabbed as a comer and a useful betting tool, but
every time General Duval carried the racing colours of Gabriel
Johnson--cherry jacket, green sleeves, red, white and blue cap--he
brought them home powdered with the dust of defeat.

Old Gabe made several ineffectual attempts to persuade Pitkin to take
the colt back again on any terms, and was laughed at for his pains.

"You had your choice, didn't you?" Pitkin would say. "Well, then, you
can't blame anybody but yourself. Whose fault is it that I got the
good colt and you got the crab? No, Gabe, a bargain's a bargain with
me, always. The General's a rotten bad race horse, but he's yours and
not mine. It's what you get for being a poor picker."

The bay colts were nearing the end of their three-year-old form when
the Pitkin string arrived on the Jungle Circuit and took up quarters
next door to Old Man Curry and his "Bible horses." Sergeant Smith was
the star of the stable and the principal money winner, when it suited
Pitkin to let him run for the money, while General Duval, as like his
half brother as a reflection in a flawless mirror, had a string of
defeats to his discredit and his feed bill was breaking old Gabe's
heart. The trainer often looked at General Duval and shook his head.

"You an' that otheh colt could tell me somethin' if yo' could
_talk_," he frequently remarked.

After his conversation with Old Man Curry, Pitkin returned to his
tackle-room in a savage state of mind, and, needing a target for his
abuse, selected Mulligan, the Iris