I like your nerve," Jeff cut in, emphasizing his approval with a slap on Bud's shoulder as he bent to lift Smoky's leg.
"I've saw worse horses than this one come in ahead--it wouldn't be no sport o' kings if nobody took a chance." "I'm taking chance enough," Bud retorted without looking up.

"If I don't win this time I will the next, maybe." "That's right," Jeff agreed heartily, winking broadly at the others behind Bud's back.
Bud rubbed Smoky's ankle with liniment, listened to various and sundry self-appointed advisers and, without seeming to think how the sums would total, took several other small bets on the race.

They were small--Pop began to teeter back and forth and lift his shoulders and pull his beard--sure signs of perturbation.
"By Christmas, I'll just put up ten dollars on the kid," Pop finally cackled.

"I ain't got much to lose--but I'll show yuh old Pop ain't going to see the young feller stand alone." He tried to catch Bud's eye, but that young man was busy saddling Smoky and returning jibe for jibe with the men around him, and did not glance toward Pop at all.
"I'll take this bottle in my pocket, Pop," he said with his back toward the old man, and mounted carelessly.

"I'll ride him around a little and give him another good rubbing before we run.