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 "Invijjus arterficial hind-legs!" said the ex-car-horse, with a grunt of contempt. "On de Belt Line we don't reckon no horse wuth his keep 'less he kin switch de car off de track, run her round on de cobbles, an' dump her in ag'in ahead o' de truck what 's blockin' him. Dere is a way o' swinging yer quarters when de driver says, ’Yank her out, boys!' dat takes a year to learn. Onct yer git onter it, youse kin yank a cable-car outer a manhole. I don't advertise myself for no circus-horse, but I knew dat trick better than most, an' dey was good to me in de stables, fer I saved time on de Belt—an' time 's what dey hunt in N' York."

"But the simple child o' nature—" the yellow horse began.

"Oh, go an' unscrew your splints! You 're talkin' through yer bandages," said Muldoon, with a horse-laugh. "ere ain't no loose-box for de simple child o' nature on de Belt Line, wid de Paris comin' in an' de Teutonic goin' out, an' de trucks an de' coupés sayin' things, an' de heavy freight movin' down fer de Boston boat 'bout free o'clock of an August afternoon, in de middle of a hot wave when de fat Kanucks an' Western horses drops dead on de block. De simple child o' nature had better chase himself inter de water. Every man at de end of his lines is mad or loaded or silly, an' de cop 's madder an' loadeder an' sillier than de rest. Dey all take it outer de horses. Dere 's no wavin' brooks ner ripplin' grass on de Belt Line. Run her out on de cobbles wid de sparks fly in', an' stop when de cop slugs you on de bone o' yer nose. Dat 's N' York; see?"