''Tain't jist a coff, nayther,' he said, 'but a kind of toom!'
With the last word he obligingly imitated the sound of the cough. It threw me into perspiration.
'Sounds bad,' said Uncle Eb, as he looked at me and snickered.
''Fraid Bill ain't much of a jockey,' said David, smiling.
'Got a grand appetite—that hoss has,' said Tip Taylor.
After breakfast Uncle Eb and I hitched him to the light buggy and touched him up for a short journey down the road. In five minutes he had begun to heave and whistle. I felt sure one could have heard him half a mile away. Uncle Eb stopped him and began to laugh.
'A whistler,' said he, 'sure's yer born. He ain't wuth a bag o' beans. But don't ye never let on. When ye git licked ye musn't never fin' fault. If anybody asks ye 'bout him tell 'em he's all ye expected.'
We stood waiting a moment for the horse to recover himself. A team was nearing us.
'There's Bob Dean,' Uncle Eb whispered. 'The durn scalawag! Don't ye say a word now.
'Good-mornin'!' said Dean, smiling as he pulled up beside us.