"Judge, do you know why I call her Saltfish?"
"Not the least idea," said I.
"Ha!" he explained, with a prodigious stare that almost shot his blue globular eyes out of his head: "because she is such a capital mare for a fast day! Ha, ha!"
Suddenly he stopped laughing from disappointment at my not seeing the joke. He repeated it—"fast day, fast day"—then glared at me, and his underlip fell. At last the old man tossed his head, and whipped his boot with his crop. I have no doubt I deprived that man of a great deal of happiness; for if anything is disappointing to a punster, it is not seeing his joke. He had not done with me yet, however, and before abandoning me as an incorrigible lunatic, asked if I would like to see Naples.
"Naples! By all means, but not at this time of year."
"Oh, I don't mean the town—no, no; but if you don't mind a little mud, I'll show you Naples. Come along this lane."
"Watercourse, you mean. I don't mind a little mud," said I; "it washes off, whoever throws it"—and I looked to see what he thought of that, knowing he would tell it at dinner.
"Good!" said he; "devilish good! Wash off, no matter who throws it—devilish good!"
Down we came off the gate, and through the mud we went, he leading with a fat chuckle.
"You don't see the joke, Hawkins—you don't see the joke about that fast day;" and he gave me another look with his great blue eyes.