“Huh,” Shin Bone grunted, and this time the tone of his voice and the expression on his face set Gaitskill to laughing merrily.
“Dat’s de only spote whut will fetch de niggers to even a free fair, Marse Tom. Dey ain’t comin’ here jes’ to show deir spindle-laig chickens an’ deir little runt pigs. Dey wants to action aroun’ wid de ponies.”
“I think you’re right, Shin,” Gaitskill grinned. “I’ve been going to fairs ever since I was old enough to stand on the seat and yell, but I never could get up any interest or enthusiasm for anything except the slim horses which galloped swiftly around the circular track.”
“Ain’t you spoke de jaw-breakin’ truth!” Shin Bone applauded. “Eve’y nigger whut comes to dis fair will hab his cotton-fiel’ pet bang-tailed an’ trained fer de races! Marse Tom, ain’t you got no cheap, spry-legged hoss you wants to sell me?”
“No!” Gaitskill walked on.
“Whut ’bout dat pie-faced sorrel, Kunnel?” Shin persisted, following a few steps behind.
“How many races do you think you could win with a horse which had been bitten on the leg by a swamp rattlesnake?” Gaitskill asked disgustedly.
“Not such a many,” Shin remarked, in a disappointed tone. “Of co’se, dat leg mought git well——”
“The horse is ruined, Shin,” Gaitskill told him. “That leg will always be stiff.”
Shin Bone stopped, watched the colonel until he turned the corner, then he returned to the gaudy lithographs and resumed his former position on the curb, dropping down in an attitude of dejection and deep meditation.