[CHAPTER XV.]
The sun shining into my eyes next morning awoke me, and turning over I heard the rattle and rub of the brush as Reuben polished away on my boots, just outside the door.
“Reuben,” I yawned, “has Horace fed the horses?” Reuben came into the room, with one boot casing his arm up to the elbow, like an ill-shaped boxing glove, and the brush still flying up and down the shining instep.
“I d’no, sir, spec he has doe, st—too!” and he stopped to spit on the end of the brush, as if he wished to spit the hairs away, “he allays de fust one up on de plantash’n.”
“Well, as soon as you get through with the boots, tell him to hitch the gray horses to the spring wagon directly after breakfast; I am going to town; and tell him to put in my saddle and bridle, as I want to ride my horse back.”
“Which un, Marse John?” said Reuben, as he set the boots by my bedside, “how’s one horse gwine to pull de wagin back here agin?”
“Dry up, and go tell Horace what I said. It is a new horse I am going after, and you have got to attend to him for me, and you can ride him to water every day.”
“Golly, dat’s ‘lishus; won’t dese quarter niggers stand back,” and he ran down stairs, cutting an audible shuffle every third step.
I was just tying on my cravat when Reuben returned, with a lengthened visage and a woful tale.