The negroes, young and old, about the place, indeed, were wild with their enthusiasm for the mare.  The day before the race a delegation of them, full of eagerness, met Neb as he came out of the stable.

“Say, Unc Neb,” said one of them, “we-all’s made a pool.”

“Pool on de races?”

“Uh-huh!  An’ we-all wants to know jes’ what we ought to put ouah money on.”

They well knew what he would say.

“Queen Bess, fo’ suah,” he answered, to their vast delight.  “Queen Bess ebery time.  She’s fit to run fo’ huh life.”

The boys accepted the suggestion with a shout, and he was about to enter into one of the long dissertations on the strong points of his equine darling, when he was informed that some stranger was approaching.  He peered down the road with his old eyes, but could not recognize the visitor.

“Who is it?” he asked one of the black lads.

“Marse Holton.”

“Marse Holton!” he repeated dryly.  “Run along, now, honiest.  Unc’ Neb gwine be busy.  I won’t hab dat ar Marse Holton pryin’ round dat mare.  Hoodoo her fo’ suah.”  He sidled to the stable door, and, careful to see that his bent body hid the operation from the coming visitor, turned the key in the big lock.  The key he then slipped into his capacious trousers pocket.

“Hello, Neb,” said Holton, affably, as he came up.

“Ebenin’, suh.”  Neb added nothing to this greeting and went nonchalantly to a distant bench to sit down on it carelessly.

“I say, Neb,” said Holton, “I expect to do a little betting, so I thought I’d jest drop over and take a look at Layson’s mare.”

Neb sat immovable upon his bench.  At first, indeed, he did not even speak, but, finally, he looked at Holton calmly, took the key out of his pocket, tossed it in the air, caught it as it came down, put it back into his pocket and dryly said:  “T’ink not, suh.”

Holton, paying no attention to him, had gone on to the stable-door and tried it.  Finding it to be fast locked, he turned back toward the darkey.  “The door’s locked, Neb,” he said.

“Knowed dat afore, suh,” Neb replied.

Holton was nettled by his nonchalance.  “Open that door!” he ordered.

“Not widout Marse Holton’s ohduhs, suh,” Neb answered calmly.

“What do you mean?” demanded Holton, angrily.

“Jus’ what I say, suh.”

Holton made a slightly threatening movement toward him, but Neb did not even wink.

“Don’t git riled, suh—­bad fo’ de livuh, suh.”

Holton, now, was very angry.  “Look here,” he said, advancing on the aged negro angrily.  “Do you dare insult a friend and neighbor of Mr. Layson?”

Neb slowly rose and answered with some dignity:  “I dares obey Marse Frank’s plain ohduhs, suh.  Dat mare represents full twenty-fi’ thousan’ dolluhs to him” (Neb rolled the handsome figures lovingly upon his tongue), “an’ dere’s thousan’s more’ll be bet on huh to-morruh.”  He looked at Holton with but thinly veiled contempt.  “Plenty men ’u’d risk deir wuthless lives to drug huh.”