Any thought of a
sentimental revenge was distasteful to the trainer, but he was glad
that good Happiness should get his box and disappointed about the
soap. It would have lent relish to his somewhat perfunctory washings
to say to himself, "Doubtless this here bit of soap is a piece of
old Cuddy."

"How long will the trench take?"

"A good bit of time, sir. Cuddy isn't no kitten we're laying by.
I'll put them gardeners on the job--with your permission--and they
know how to shovel. You'll want an old saddle on him?"

"No, no, the one I've raced him in, number twelve, and his old
bridle with the chain bit."

"Well, well," said Willet rubbing his veiny nose.

He considered the horse unworthy of any distinction, but in his
desire to please Geth, took pains to prepare Cuddy for his death and
burial. Gething was still at the big house although it was four
o'clock and the men on Break-Neck Hill were busy with their digging.
Willet called them the sextons.

"And we, Joey," he addressed a stable boy, "we're the undertakers.
Handsome corpse, what?" Cuddy stood in the centre of the barn floor
fastened to be groomed. He was handsome, built on the cleanest lines
of speed and strength, lean as an anatomical study, perfect for his
type. The depth of chest made his legs, neck, and head look fragile.
His face was unusually beautiful--the white-starred face which had
been before Geth's eyes as he had sat in Holly Park. His pricked
ears strained to hear, his eyes to see. The men working over him
were beneath his notice.

"Look at him," complained Joey, "he pays no more attention to us
than as if we weren't here." Cuddy usually kicked during grooming,
but his present indifference was more insulting.

"Huh!" said Willet. "he knows them sextons went to Break-Neck to
dig the grave for him. Don't yer, Devil? Say, Joey, look at him
listening like he was counting the number of spadefuls it takes to
make a horse's grave. 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.