“Now I want to know!” exclaimed Evans, carelessly, “Why didn’t you say so before? You seem to be making quite a chore of a very simple thing; I’ll just have my little horse do it for you in a jiffy!”
A shout of derisive laughter greeted his remark.
“Now do tell!” cried Hiram Sage, sarcastically.
“That pony pull a log my Jim refused?” scoffed another.
“My ‘pony,’ as you call him,” laughed Evans, good-naturedly, “has never refused me yet.” He placed his arm over True’s neck; the horse rattled his chains musically, and reached for a low-handing bough.
“Work is play for this animal,” Evans went on. “We’ve been in the logging-field all day, but that don’t make a mite o’ difference to the Morgan horse. Come, show us your log!”
True shook himself again and went on chewing leaves.
“Why, that beast’s naught but a colt!” said Jim’s owner, scornfully.
“Colt or no, he’s the finest bit o’ horse-flesh this side of The Plains of Abraham!” Evans contended, hotly. “Give him his head and he goes like a shot and doesn’t pull an ounce, and as for drawing a load—when this horse starts, something’s got to come! That is,” he added with a laugh, “as long as the tugs last!”
“Well, stop your bragging,” said the sarcastic Hiram; “actions speak louder than words. Hitch him up that there ‘something’ and let us see it ‘come’.”