t ar spring I was workin'
for de Risin' Sun libbery-stable: Colonel Trott an' Cap'n Gallup run it
den. De colonel was what yer call a fas' man, one ob yo' racin', bettin'
characters, but right smart ob a gentleman same time; while de cap'n
b'longed to de Church, and war de meanes' man out of Missouri. 'Bout dat
time de firm owned Challenger, de fas'est Kansas horse goin', an' dey made
a heap ob money a-racin' him at all de fairs. De colonel allus divided de
winnin's wid de cap'n, but when he lost on a race de cap'n made him stan'
it out ob his private puss, 'cause he said bettin' was ag'in his
principles, anyhow. Dis yeah spring dar was goin' to be a famous big race
at Platte City, an' de colonel he 'lowed he'd take Challenger ober. Now,
de colonel nebber rode a hoss on de track--'twan't t'ought to be de
correct ting for a gentleman to do--and he weighed a heap too much for
anyting short ob a elephant to race. I war de leanest man in de stables,
an' as de colonel war more dan usual pertik'lar 'bout Challenger carrying
light weight dis time, he took me 'long wid him. When we got dar he gabe
me a quarter an' tole me to loaf roun' until de races was called. Dis war
jus' what I wanted, fur I knowed dat de Skylarks who used to own Vina
libbed at Platte City, an' I t'ought likely some ob dem mought be at de
races. Dar was a right smart sprinklin' ob niggers on de groun's, mos' ob
dem hangin' roun' de 'freshment-stan's, an' I walked roun' 'mongst 'em
kinder careless, zif I wasn't t'inkin' ob nuffin' pertik'lar, when I see
standin' right in front ob me a little one-eyed gal dat 'minded me
mightily ob Vina's George. 'Whose little gal be yer?' says I.--'She's one
ob Judge Skylark's niggers,' says a woman standin' by. 'Don't see none ob
de udders here: shouldn't wonder if she'd runn'd away to see de racin'.'
Wall, I waited till nobody wan't lookin', an' den I axed her what her name
was.--'Dey calls me Vina's little gal,' says she.--'Who's Vina?' says
I.--'Dar ain't no Vina,' says she.--Who's yo' fader an' mudder?' says
I.--'George _was_ my fader,' says she, 'but de abolitioners done carried
him off an' chawed him up. I'se awful skeered ob de abolitioners, I is. I
ain't got no fader nor mudder: de buzzards done hatched me.' Wall, I was
dat sho' it was Vina's chile dat I didn' wait no longer, but jus' toted
her roun' to de ice-cream stan' an' filled her chock full of ice-cream.
Den I says, 'How would yer like a ride on one ob dem fancy