“Billy is—Billy!” said the farmer. He was really greatly interested. Nothing so agreeable as this had happened in his monotonous life since he could remember. Here were three lads, as full of life as he had been once, jolly, hearty, with a will to do and conquer everything; and—here was Billy. A great, awkward, inert mass of bone and muscle, merely, calmly holding these clever youngsters at bay.
“Can he be ridden?” demanded Jim, at length.
“He might. Try;” said the man, in heart-broken accents.
Jim tried. Melvin tried. Gerald tried. With every attempt to cross his back the animal threw up his heels and calmly shook the intruder off.
The Colonel folded his arms and sorrowfully regarded these various attempts and failures; then dolefully remarked:
“It seems I cayn’t even give Billy away. Ah! hum.”
Jim lost his temper.
“Well, sir, we’ll call it off and bid you good night. Somebody will come back to pay you for the melons.”
As he turned away in a huff his mates started to follow him; but Melvin was surprised by a touch on his shoulder and looked up to see the Colonel beside him.
“Young man, you look as if you came of gentle stock. Billy was brought up by a gentlewoman, my daughter. She forsook him and me for another man. I mean she got married. That’s why Billy and I live alone now, except for the niggers. They’s a right and a wrong way to everything. This—is the right way with Billy. Billy, lie down.”