HE WASN'T A HORSE JOCKEY.
It was at the close of a fine, autumnal afternoon, that a simple-looking traveller, attired in a homespun suit of gray, and wearing a broad-brimmed, Quaker-looking hat, drove up to the door of the Spread Eagle Tavern, in the town of B——, State of Maine, kept by Major E. Spike, and ordered refreshments for himself and horse. There was nothing particular about the traveller, except his air of simplicity; but his horse was a character. The animal was at least thirty years of age, and was as gaunt as Rosinante, and would have been a dear bargain at fifteen dollars. The traveller acknowledged that he had been taken in somewhat when he bought the animal, for he "wasn't a horse jockey," and "did'nt know much about critters!" However, he added, "that if he had good luck in his trip down east, [he was agent for a Hartford Life Assurance Company,] he meant to pick up something handsome in the way of horse flesh to take home with him." After communicating his name and business, and sundry other particulars, with a frankness which, while it satisfied the curiosity, excited the contempt of Major Spike, the stranger, whom we shall call Zebulon Smith, departed.
He had a business call to make on the widow Stebbins, who lived about three miles off, in a very old, unfinished, shingled house, of immense extent, in the centre of an unfenced lot, the chief products of which were rocks, brambles, and barberry bushes.
"Keep much stock, Miss Stebbins?" said he, as, having transacted his business, he prepared to resume his journey.
"Why, no," said she; "I'm a lone woman, and hain't got no help; so I keep only a cow and that 'ere colt. I wish I could sell him, for I ain't got nobody to break him in properly."
Zebulon looked at the colt. He was a limpsey, long-legged, shaggy animal, with a ewe-neck, drooping head, and little, undecided tail, completely knotted up with burs; but then he was only five years old.
"Heow'll yeou trade, Miss Stebbins?" asked the agent. "I've a mind to take the critter, if you'll trade even, though I don't know the pints of a horse. I ain't a horse jockey. Heowever, you're a lone woman, and I want to oblige you. You hain't got nobody to break the colt for you, and here's my hoss would suit you to a T. He's a nice family hoss."
"Heow old is he?" asked Mrs. Stebbins.