Red Hoss snorted his contempt for his warning.
"Huh, de trouble wid dat mule is he's pampered! You niggers done pamper him twell he think he owns dese whole ice-factory premises. Whut he need fur whut ails him is somebody which ain't skeered of him. Me, I aims to go 'crost to dat stable barn over yonder 'crost de street an' walk right in de same stall wid dat Frank same ez whut I would wid ary other mule, an' ef he mek jes' one pass at me I'm gwine up wid my fistes an' give him somethin' to brood over."
Bill Tilghman looked at Tallow Dick, looking at him sorrowfully, as though haunted by forebodings of an impending tragedy, and shook his head slowly from side to side. Tallow Dick returned the glance in kind, and then both of them gazed steadfastly at the vainglorious new hand.
"Son, boy," inquired old Bill softly, "whut is de name of yore mos' favorite hymn?"
"Whut my favorite hymn got to do wid it?"
"Oh, nothin', only I wuz jes' studyin'. Settin' yere, I got to thinkin' dat mebbe dey wuz some purticular tune you might lak sung at de grave."
"An' whilst you's tellin' Unc' Bill dat much, you mout also tell us whar 'bouts in dis town you lives at?" added Tallow Dick.
"You knows good an' well whar I lives at," snapped Red Hoss.
"I thought mebbe you mout 'a' moved," said Tallow Dick mildly. "'Twouldn't never do fur me an' Bill yere to be totin' de remains to de wrong address. Been my experience dat nothin' ain't mo' onwelcome at a strange house 'en a daid nigger, especially one dat's about six feet two inches long an' all mussed up wid fresh mule tracks."