“No,” says he, “not exactly girls; nor yet exactly wimmin.” And that was all he’d say about them.
We followed him over to a railing where he’d hitched his horse and wagon. As soon as he came within earshot of the horse he began talking to him just like anybody’d talk to folks.
“Good evenin’, Alfred,” says he; and I thought that was a funny name for a horse. “I’m back again,” he says, “a-bringin’ with me three medium-sized boys and one boy that is a little mite—say about a hundred pounds—over the medium.” He turned to us. “Come over here,” he says, “and see you act your politest. I want you should be acquainted with Alfred. Step right up. Alfred, this here is my nephew, Binney Jenks.”
Alfred lifted his head and bobbed it down in as fine a bow as you ever saw, and he did the same thing when he was introduced to the other three.
“Be we glad to have visitors, Alfred?”
Alfred bobbed his head three times and whickered the most pleased whicker I ever heard a horse give.
Uncle turned to us solemn. “It’s all right, fellers,” says he. “I was a mite bothered till you’d met Alfred and I found out what he thought about you. If Alfred had took a dislike to you I don’t know what I ever would have done. Alfred and Marthy and Mary sort of runs me, so to speak. The way they boss me around is surprisin’ the first time you notice it.”
We all climbed in the wagon with our baggage, and uncle leaned over the dash-board so Alfred could hear better.
“He’s a leetle deef,” uncle told us. Then he spoke to the horse. “Alfred,” says he, “I calc’late we better be startin’ if you feel you’ve got rested. I don’t want to hurry you, but if you feel you’re ready, why, jest go ahead.”
Alfred turned his head as though he wanted to see everybody was in, then he sort of sighed and began to go up the road slow as molasses.