Uncle Sam looked down at the shoes and saw that they were badly scuffed and that the young man's foot was bulging from a slit in the leather on the side of one of them. A good deal of the stitching on the other one had come loose; and it was laced with a shaggy scrap of binder twine. Whether the soles were through or not Uncle Sam could not see.
"An' lookit my shirt. It's the on'y shirt I got, I swear it is; an' it hain't a-goin' to cover my nakedness much longer."
He turned around with a broad grin and showed a long slit over the shoulder blade, through which his healthy, sun-browned skin shone with a satiny sheen.
"Naw, even if she didn't have nothin' the matter with her feet, the mare's too light. I hain't got no youst fer her."
Uncle Sam took a sidewise step, spat over the edge of the curb, and made as if to jump into the saddle.
"I tell yuh, an' I'd swear it on the Holy Book, there hain't a thing the matter with them there front feet. The poor beast's footsore, that's all's wrong with her. If you'd come from Williamstown this mornin' 'ithout shoes, wouldn't you be dead on yer feet? Gawd, them rough, stony roads is hard on a good shod hoss, let alone one that hain't got no shoes at all. I wouldn't think o' tradin' fer that awkward lout o' yourn, not fer a minit if it wa'n't he's new shod. I gotta be on the road to-night agin, an' I gotta have a hoss that kin travel along."
"Naw, she hain't nuthin to me. She's too light."
"But look what a beauty she is! Wouldn't you be praoud to drive a hoss like that? Wouldn't yer wife be praoud to drive her? Lookit the color of her. Look haow she holds her head. Lookit them round haunches. Lookit them slim, dainty legs. If she hain't sound an' perfect in wind an' limb you kin take this las' shirt off'n my back."
"Naw, I can't use her."
Uncle Sam made another move toward the saddle.