This horse, about twice the age of either Penrod or Sam, had
lived to find himself in a unique position. He was nude,
possessing neither harness nor halter; all he had was a name,
Whitey, and he would have answered to it by a slight change of
expression if any one had thus properly addressed him. So forlorn
was Whitey's case, he was actually an independent horse; he had
not even an owner. For two days and a half he had been his own
master.
Previous to that period he had been the property of one Abalene
Morris, a person of colour, who would have explained himself as
engaged in the hauling business. On the contrary, the hauling
business was an insignificant side line with Mr. Morris, for he
had long ago given himself, as utterly as fortune permitted, to
the talent that early in youth he had recognized as the greatest
of all those surging in his bosom. In his waking thoughts and in
his dreams, in health and in sickness, Abalene Morris was the
dashing and emotional practitioner of an art probably more than
Roman in antiquity. Abalene was a crap-shooter. The hauling
business was a disguise.
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