86 CHARLIE SING. 



the dust and I would be with him as soon as I took 

 the horse's bandages off. I peeked around to see 

 how he took it and found it was the same old Ragan, 

 as in a minute he was on the other side of the horse 

 rolling a derby off his leg as clever as the best 

 groomstef I ever put an eye on. 



"So you thought I was stuck up?" says he. 



"Not a bit of it," says I, "but I was afraid you 

 might soil your new harness." By that I meant 

 clothes. 



"I am having my vacation," said Ragan without 

 noticing my remark, "and as I was made a present of 

 a new suit of clothes for selling a horse, I thought I 

 would put them on and take in the races." 



"Right you are," said I. "I knew you had warm 

 blood in your veins, although you were always daft 

 on the jumpers." By that I meant his fondness for 

 the steeplechasers, and let me tell you, Ragan was 

 an artist on the back of a horse when it came to pilot- 

 ing him over the fences. He said it was in the south 

 of Ireland breed and I believed it, even if Turner and 

 Murphy did take to the sulky instead of the saddle. 



What we talked about is no matter, but the 

 following morning when I had my pupil out walking 

 him in the wet grass to take the fever out of his legs, 

 Ragan slipped around the turn and signaled for me 

 to come to him. That looked like business, so over 

 I went. After passing the time of day Ragan says to 

 me in a whisper: "Is there a horse named Del 

 Monte?" I told him there was. "Well," said he, 

 "I'm going to back him." You should have seen me 

 look at Ragan. When I had my fill I took him by the 

 arm, led him and the horse into the stall and hooked 



