Aint that your nigger boy Jeff? inquired Doctor Lake of Judge Priest, as the new comer, still boring deftly, emerged from the group
and with a last muttered Scuse me, boss please, suh scuse me! darted away toward the head of the stretch, where others of his race were draping themselves over the top rail of the fence in black festoons.
Yes, I suppose tis probably, said Judge Priest in that high singsong of his. That black scoundrel of mine is liable to be everywhere except when you want him, and then hes not anywhere. That must be Jeff, I reckin. And the old judge chuckled indulgently in appreciation of Jeffs manifold talents.
During the parade of the veterans that day Judge Priest, as commandant of the camp, had led the march just behind the fife and drums and just ahead of the color-bearer carrying the silken flag; and all the way out from town Jeff, his manservant, valet, and guardian, had marched a pace to his right. Jeffs own private and personal convictions convictions which no white man would ever know by word of mouth from Jeff anyhow
were not with the late cause which those elderly men in gray represented. Jeffs political feelings, if any such he had, would be sure to lean away from them; but it was a chance to march with music and Jeff had marched, his head up and his feet cutting scallops and double-shuffles in the dust.
Judge Priests Jeff was a small, jet-black person, swift in his gait and wise in his generation. He kept his wool cropped close and made the part in it with a razor. By some subtle art of his own he could fall heir to somebody elses old clothes and, wearing them, make than look newer and better than when they were new. Overcome by the specious wiles of Jeff some white gentleman of his acquaintance would bestow upon him a garment that seemed shabby to the point of open shame and a public scandal. Jeff would retire for a season with a pressing iron and a bottle of cleansing fluid, and presently that garment would come forth, having undergone a glorious resurrection. Seeing it, then, the former proprietor would repent his generosity and wonder what ever possessed him to part with apparel so splendid.
For this special and gala occasion Jim wore a blue-serge coat that had been given to him in consideration of certain acts of office-tending by Attorney Clay Saunders. Attorney Clay Saunders weighed two hundred and fifty pounds If he weighed an ounce, and Jeff would never see one hundred and twenty-five; but the blue serge was draped upon Jeffs frame with just the fashionable looseness. The sleeves, though a trifle long, hung most beautifully. Jeffs trousers were of a light and pearly gray, and had been the property originally of Mr. Otter-buck, cashier at the bank, who was built long and rangy; whereas Jeff was distinctly short and ducklike. Yet these same trousers, pressed now until you could have peeled peaches with their creases and turned up at the bottoms to a rakish and sporty length, looked as if they might have been specially coopered to Jeffs legs by a skilled tailor.
This was Judge Priests Jeff, whose feet would fit anybodys shoes and whose head would fit anybodys hat. Having got his money safely down on Flitterfoot to win, Jeff was presently choking a post far up the homestretch. With a final crack of the starters coiling blacksnake and a mounting scroll of dust, the runners were off on their half-mile dash. While the horses were still spattering through the dust on the far side of the course from him Jeff began encouraging his choice by speech.
Come on, you little red hoss! he said in a low, confidential tone. I asks you lak a genleman to come on and win all that money fur me. Come on, you little red hoss you aint half runnin! little red hoss his voice sank to a note of passionate pleading whut is detainin you?
Perhaps even that many years back, when it had just been discovered, there was something to this new theory of thought transference. As if Jeffs tense whispers were reaching to him across two hundred yards of track and open field Flitterfoot opened up a gap between his lathered flanks and the rest of them. The others, in a confused group, scrambled and hinged out with their hoofs; but Flitterfoot turned into a long red elastic rubber band, stretching himself out to twice his honest length and then snapping back again to half. High up on his shoulder the ragged black stable boy hung, with his knees under his chin and his shoulders hunched as though squaring off to do a little flying himself. Twenty long yards ahead of the nearest contender, Flitterfoot scooted over the line a winner. Once across, he expeditiously bucked the crouching small incumbrance off his withers and, with the bridle dangling, bounced riderless back to his stable; while above the roar from the grandstand rose the triumphant remark of Jeff: Aint he a regular runnin and a-jumpin fool!
The really important business of the day to most, however, centered about the harness events, which was only natural, this being an end of the state where they raised the standard breds as distinguished from the section whence came the thoroughbreds. A running race might do for an appetizer, like a toddy before dinner; but the big interest would focus in the two-twenty pace and the free-for-all consolation, and finally would culminate in the County Trot open only to horses bred and owned in the county and carrying with it a purse of two thousand dollars big money for that country and a dented and tarnished silver trophy that was nearly fifty years old, and valued accordingly.