On the contrary, the hauling business was an
insignificant side line with Mr. Morris, for he had long ago given
himself, as utterly as fortune permitted, to that talent which, early
in youth, he had recognized as the greatest of all those surging in his
bosom. In his waking thoughts and in his dreams, in health and in
sickness, Abalene Morris was the dashing and emotional practitioner of
an art[22-1] probably more than Roman in antiquity. Abalene was a
crap-shooter. The hauling business was a disguise.

A concentration of events had brought it about that, at one and the
same time, Abalene, after a dazzling run of the dice, found the hauling
business an actual danger to the preservation of his liberty. He won
seventeen dollars and sixty cents, and within the hour found himself in
trouble with an officer of the Humane Society on account of an
altercation with Whitey. Abalene had been offered four dollars for
Whitey some ten days earlier; wherefore he at once drove to the shop of
the junk-dealer who had made the offer and announced his acquiescence
in the sacrifice.

"_No_, suh!" said the junk-dealer, with emphasis. "I awready done got
me a good mule fer my deliv'ry-hoss, 'n'at ole Whitey hoss ain' wuff no
fo' dollah nohow! I 'uz a fool when I talk 'bout th'owin' money roun'
that a-way. I know what _you_ up to, Abalene. Man come by here li'l bit
ago tole me all 'bout white man try to 'rest you, ovah on the avvynoo.
Yessuh; he say white man goin' to git you yit an' th'ow you in jail
'count o' Whitey. White man tryin' to fine out who you _is_. He say,
nemmine, he'll know Whitey ag'in, even if he don' know you! He say he
ketch you by the hoss; so you come roun' tryin' fix me up with Whitey
so white man grab me, th'ow _me_ in 'at jail. G'on 'way f'um hyuh, you
Abalene! You cain' sell an' you cain' give Whitey to no cullud man 'in
'is town. You go an' drowned 'at ole hoss, 'cause you sutny goin' to
jail if you git ketched drivin' him."

The substance of this advice seemed good to Abalene, especially as the
seventeen dollars and sixty cents in his pocket lent sweet colors to
life out of jail at this time. At dusk he led Whitey to a broad common
at the edge of town, and spoke to him finally.

"G'on 'bout you biz'nis," said Abalene; "you ain' _my_ hoss. Don' look
roun' at me, 'cause _I_ ain' got no 'quaintance wif you. I'm a man o'
money, an' I got my own frien's; I'm a-lookin' fer bigger cities, hoss.
You got you' biz'nis an