He's thinking, old Cuddy is, and scheming what
he'd like to do. I wouldn't ride him from here to Break-Neck, not
for a thousand dollars." He began rapidly with the body brush on
Cuddy's powerful haunch, then burst out:
"He thinks he'll be good and we'll think he's hit the sawdust trail,
or perhaps he wants to look pretty in his coffin. Huh! Give me that
curry. You wash off his face a bit." Cuddy turned his aristocratic
face away from the wet cloth and blew tremulously. Joey tapped the
blazing star on his forehead.
"Right there," he explained to Willet, "but anyhow he's begun to
show his age." He pointed the muzzle which had the run forward look
of an old horse and to the pits above the eyes. The grooming was
finished but neither Gething came to the stable from the big house
nor the trench diggers from Break-Neck to say that their work was
done.
"Say, Joey," suggested Willet, "I'll do up his mane in red and
yellow worsteds, like he was going to be exhibited. Red and yellow
look well on a bay. You get to the paddock and see Frenchman hasn't
slipped his blanket while I fetch the worsteds from the office."
Cuddy left alone, stopped his listening and began pulling at his
halter. It held him firm. From the brown dusk of their box-stalls
two lines of expectant horses' faces watched him.
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