VI X. 11 



'orse-flesh that was hever imported, sir." That 

 was enough. "Imported" decided my case, and 

 I listened eagerly to the enthusiastic story, — a 

 story to which this man's life was bound with 

 threads of hard-earned silver, and not less by a 

 real honest love for a fine animal. He had never 

 been much given to saving, but he was a good 

 workman, and the little he had saved had been 

 blown away in the dust that clouded his favorite 

 at the tail of the race. 



Still, he attached himself to her person, and 

 followed her in her disgrace. " She were n't quite 

 quick enough for the turf, sir, but she be a good 

 'un for a gentleman's 'ack." 



He had watched her for years, and scraped 

 acquaintance with her different owners as fast as 

 she had changed them, and finally, when she was 

 far gone with pneumonia, he had accepted her as 

 a gift, and, by careful nursing, had cured her. 

 Then, for a time, he rode her himself, and his eye 

 brightened as he told of her leaps and her stride. 

 Of course he rode her to the races, and — one 

 luckless day — when he had lost everything, and 



