"That's right, Mr. Slick," sez he, when he see my bell-crown off.
"Par the President must be a'most tired to death, a bowin and a shakin hands so much, it's quite proper that you and I should do a little on it for him."
"Wal," think sez I, "if you aint a self-conceited critter, I don't know who is," but the feller looked as innocent as a lamb, and I was afeard he'd feel about as sheepish as if I let out on him—so I put my bell-crown on agin, with a leetle knock at the top, for I had to settle the grit somehow, and sez I,
"Wal, Mr. Tyler—to git on a new subject—how'll you swap horses?—say my mare and colt agin that harnsome critter of your'n, saddle and bridle thrown in?"
The feller kinder smiled, but didn't answer right off, so I jest turned about, and leaned one hand on the old mare's cropper, while I whistled the colt up tu us, and pinted out his harnsome head and chist, and the clean notion that he has got of flingin out his legs.
"He's a smart critter, I can tell you," sez I; "and as for the old mare here, she's worth her weight in silver dollars. Haint got but one fault on arth."
"And what's that?" sez Mr. Robert Tyler, sez he.
"Why, she's troubled with the botts a leetle, once in a while, but it aint nothin worth mentionin."
Mr. Robert Tyler he give a start, and he turned as white as skim milk in the face. Sez he, all in a twitter, sez he, "Don't mention it, Mr. Slick. My par, the President, wouldn't let a horse go into his stable that had ever gin symptoms of the botts. It's an awful disease. Don't mention it to him, for he'd never git over it if you did!"