“No,” Joe returned patiently; “I’se done gwine ter keep at hit, we’s get hit done somehow; if not dis year, den de nex’. I ’clar fur hit, sometimes I done been tempted fur t’ hitch one ob de cow beasts up along o’ Bill an’ tryin’ de plowin’ dat way.”
“Isn’t there some way of making Frank keep straight without whipping him?” I asked, my sympathies being about equally divided between man and horse.
“Oh, yes! I done thought a hun’nerd times dat ef dere was only some small, active boy w’at would ride him whilst I—”
I sprang to my feet, tossing aside the pieces of gingham that were destined to form a new shirt for Mr. Horton: “Here am I, Joe, take me!”
“You!” Joe’s mild eyes looked me over, and gleamed approvingly. “You is little, you is active, an’ yo’ has de bravest heart, and de unselfishest sperrit—” he said, half soliloquizing, until I interposed, laughingly:
“Come, now! Stop calling me names and say that I’ll do!”
“Dat yo’ will, honey, chile, but I nebber thought ob askin’ yo’ to do sech wuck as dat! Hit ain’ fittin’ nohow!”
“Fitting! Anything is fitting that is honest, and will help us out, Joe. Still, I am rather glad that the fields are quite out of sight from the road.”
“Dat’s w’at dey is. Come on, den. Frank gwine wuck like a hero, now, ’cause he done think hit’s saddle wuck w’at he’s a doin’.”