"He's risin' six years," said Zebulon, and so he was.
"He looks pretty well along," said the widow. "How much boot will you give me?"
"Boot!" exclaimed Zebulon. "O, if you talk about boot, I'm off. I ain't no horse jockey, but I know I'm flingin' my hoss—good old hoss—away by tradin' even. But generosity and consideration for widders—specially good-lookin' ones—was allers a failin' in my family."
"I don't know as I had orter," said the widow, thoughtfully; "if Mr. Stebbins was alive, you wouldn't get the colt so cheap, for he sot every thing by him. He's sot his pedigree down in the births, deaths, and marriages, in our family Bible. He allers said, poor man, he was goin' to make a great hoss."
"That 'ere was an optical delusion," said the agent; "he warn't never a goin' to make a great hoss, and he won't never be a great hoss. I know so much, if I ain't a horse jockey. Come, now, what say? Shall I ungear, and leave my critter, or put on the string and be a travellin'?"
"You may have the colt," said the widow, bursting into tears, and retiring, unable to witness the consummation of the sacrifice.
"Come, young Burtail," said Zebulon, addressing the colt. "It's time you was sot to work. I don't know whether you ever had a collar over your darned ewe-neck or not. I don't see how any thing short of a crooked-neck squash could fit it; but I'll try mine on." And with these words he harnessed up the colt, and leaving his old "hoss" with the widow, drove on his way rejoicing.
About fifteen miles farther east, he stopped and put up at a tavern, where he made an arrangement to leave the colt for a week, hiring the landlord's horse to pursue his journey. He gave directions to have the colt fed high in the interim, to have his tail nicked and put in pulleys, his head checked up, and his coat carefully shaved according to the new practice. A very astute hostler promised that every thing should be done according to his directions, and to his perfect satisfaction.
Accordingly, in a week's time, when Zebulon came back, he hardly knew his bargain. The colt was fat as a hog. His sides shone like silver; his mane was neatly trimmed; his tail was crimped, and rose and fell in a graceful curve; and he carried his head as proudly as an Arabian.
With the metamorphosed animal in the fills, the agent drove back to the Spread Eagle, and put up for the night. In the morning, he ordered his team, and paid his bill. Major Spike, who was great on horses, standing at the front door, was struck with the appearance of his guest's "cattle."