"'You didn't get the colt?' I says to him.
"'No,' he says. 'I didn't get anything . . . I lost something.'
"'Never mind what,' he says. 'Here, put this bag of sugar where I can get at it. She told me to feed him two lumps a day.'
"After that he comes every evenin' 'n' gives the colt sugar, but he's poor company. He just stands lookin' at the colt. Half the time he don't hear what I say to him.
"The colt wins the Nashville Derby, 'n' then I ships him to Loueyville for the Kentucky. We want him to win _that_ more'n all the rest, but as luck goes, he ketches cold shippin', 'n' he can't start.
"Miss Goodloe comes over to Loueyville one mawnin' to see him. She gets through huggin' him after while, 'n' sets down in a chair by the stall door.
"'Now, start at the beginning and tell me everything,' she says.
"So I tells her every move the colt makes since I has him.
"'How did he happen to catch cold?' she asks.
"'Oh! How dreadful!' she says. 'What caused it?'
"'Sugar,' I says, never crackin' a smile.
"She flushes up, 'n' I see she knows what I mean, but she don't ask no more questions. Before she leaves, Miss Goodloe tells me she'll come to Cincinnati if the colt's well enough to start in the Latonia Derby.
"I ships to Cincinnati. About noon derby day I'm watchin' the swipes workin' on the colt. He's favorite fur the Latonia 'n' there's mebby a hundred boobs in front of the stall rubberin' at him.
"'Please let dis lady pass,' I hears some one say, 'n' here comes Liza helpin' Miss Goodloe through the crowd. When Liza sees me I ducks 'n' holds up my arm like I'm dodgin' somethin'. She grins till her mouth looks like a tombstone factory.
"'I clean fohgot to bring dat pokah wid me,' she says. 'Hyar you is, Miss Sally.'
"I don't hardly know Miss Goodloe. There's nothin' like race day to get a dame goin'. Her eyes are shinin' 'n' her cheeks are pink, 'n' she don't look more'n sixteen.
"'Why, Boy-baby,' she says to the colt, 'you've grown to be such a wonderful person I can't believe it's you!' The colt knows it's race day 'n' he don't pay much attention to her. 'Oh, Boy-baby!' says Miss Goodloe, 'I'm afraid you've had your head turned . . . you don't even notice your own mammy!'
"'His head ain't turned, it's full of race,' I says to her. He'll come down to earth after he gets that mile-'n'-a-quarter under his belt.'