"Put in new planks," was his order to the men. "An' pour hot tar in the
cracks. Then when the tar dries shove her in . . . but I'll tell you when."
Every morning young Creech rowed over to see if the boat was ready to take the
trip across to bring his father's horses back. The third morning of work on
the boat Bostil met Joel down there. Joel seemed eager to speak to Bostil. He
certainly was a wild-looking youth.
"Bostil, my ole man is losin' sleep waitin' to git the hosses over," he said,
frankly. "Feed's almost gone."
"That'll be all right, Joel," replied Bostil. "You see, the river ain't begun
to raise yet. . . . How're the hosses comin' on?"
"Grand, sir--grand!" exclaimed the simple Joel. "Peg is runnin' faster than
last year, but Blue Roan is leavin' her a mile. Dad's goin' to bet all he has.
The roan can't lose this year."
Bostil felt like a bull bayed at by a hound. Blue Roan was a young horse, and
every season he had grown bigger and faster. The King had reached the limit of
his speed. That was great, Bostil knew, and enough to win over any horse in
the uplands, providing the luck of the race fell even.
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