“I ain’t goin’ to cry-baby unless she’s a biter—and swappin’ biters ain’t no fair,” protested the tall man.
“No danger of her bitin’ anything harder’n porridge with them teeth,” said the man called Lem, with great good humour. “I’d jest’s soon tell ye. She’s high pressur’.”
“Wind’s broke, hey?”
“’Ep!”
“Bad?” The tall man eyed the gray mare with interest.
“Wa-a-al,” drawled the other, buckling the ends of his reins and preparing to climb into his waggon, “she ain’t blowed out ary cylinder head yit, but she sartinly does whistle loud enough so’t your wife can git supper ready on to the table after she begins to hear ye comin’.”
The bystanders laughed, and Lem climbed into his waggon in still greater good humour. He turned a beaming face on the new owner of the gray mare.
The aforesaid owner of the gray mare was not a whit disconcerted. He pulled a bit of strap iron from his pocket and pinched it over the mare’s nostrils.
“There’s some ‘outs’ that’s wusser’n whistlin’,” he said mysteriously as he adjusted the strap iron. “You might as well git your laugh in now, Lem. There’s nothin’ like gittin’ in a laugh at one end or t’other of a trade.”
Most of Lem’s gayety left him, and he looked at the stump-tailed horse with some anxiety.