He heaved a sigh, and knocked the bowl of his pipe on his thumb, but he did not accept the offer, though I knew he admired that heifer.
“Why, Uncle, what is the matter? You’re not ill?”
“’Tain’t that, either—not ’xactly—tho’ there’s such a thing as illness o’ the mind.”
“I’m very sorry,” as I unhitched the bridle and prepared to mount, “for I’ll have to go to Long Sam, and from the hairs I’ve seen I shouldn’t be surprised if this is a black tiger.”
This was the last shot—Abe Pike had not yet trapped a black tiger, and Long Sam was his rival in bush lore.
“That settles it,” he said, with a groan.
“Come along then,” I said, with a smile at my success in breaking through his obstinacy.
Abe rose up and laid his gnarled hand on the mane of the horse. “’Tis the same one,” he muttered, “the same one, sure.”
“Why, of course; you know the old horse, Black Dick.”
“Black Nick,” he said slowly, and, drawing his hand across his forehead; “my boy, you’ll never trap that animile; he’s a witch tiger.”