“Our Kentucky horses, I’ve a notion, would surprise you. They’re almighty goers; at a trot, beat a North West gal of wind. I once took an Englishman with me in a gig up Allibama country, and he says, ‘What’s this great churchyard we are passing through?’ ‘And stranger,’ says I, ‘I calculate it’s nothing but the milestones we are passing so slick.’ But I once had a horse, who, I expect, was a deal quicker than that. I once seed a flash of lightning chase him for half-an-hour round the clearance, and I guess it couldn’t catch him. But I can’t wait no longer. I expect you’ll come alongside to-morrow afore meridian.”
“Ay, ay, master,” replied old Tom, tuning up—
“’Twas post meridian, half-past four,
By signal I from Nancy parted,
At five she lingered on the shore,
With uplift eyes and broken-hearted.”
“I calculate you are no fool of a screamer,” said the American, shoving off his boat from the barge, and pulling to his vessel.
“And I calculate you’re no fool of a liar,” said young Tom.
“Well, so he is; but I do like a good lie, Jacob, there’s some fun in it. But what the devil does the fellow mean by calling a gale of wind—a gal?”
“I don’t know,” replied Tom, “unless for the same reason that we call a girl a blowing.”
Our conversation was here interrupted by Mr Hodgson, the new head clerk, of whom I have hitherto said nothing. He came into the establishment in the place of Mr Tomkins, when we quitted the Battersea wharf, and had taken an evident dislike to me, which appeared to increase every day, as Mr Drummond gave me fresh marks of his approbation. “You, Faithful, come out of that barge directly, and go to your desk. I will have no eye-servers under me. Come out, sir, directly.”
“I say, Mr Quilldriver,” cried old Tom, “do you mean for to say that Jacob is an eye-sarver?”
“Yes, I do; and want none of your impertinence, or I’ll unship you, you old blackguard.”