Sellick laughed at that too. “You remind me of Mose Chatford. Mose has got a little dry wit about him, sometimes. When I fust moved into the place, he was about twelve year old; and one day he had his cousin, Syd Chatford, making him a visit,—older’n he was, but a little bit of a chap; you know little Syd. I had seen Mose, but I hadn’t seen Syd before; and noticing a kind of family resemblance between ’em, I said, ‘Mose, is that one of your boys?’ meaning his folks’s, of course. But the little rascal stretches himself up,—pompous as could be, grave as a judge,—‘No, I ain’t a man of a family!’ says he, and walks on. Sassy, his daddy said, when I told him on ’t; but I joke the boys, and I’m willing they should joke me. Where’s the deacon? I’ll ask you agin, and leave off the sonny.”
Jack thought the deacon hadn’t got out yet.
“That never’ll do, never’ll do! Bad example, deacon! Airly bird ketches the worm. I shall have to give him a talking to. Fie, fie, deacon! Where’s Pip, Mr. Pip, Mr. Pipkin, Mr. Philander P. Pipkin, Esquire?” the merry man rattled away. “I’m particular to give all the names I’ve heard him called by, so as to get an answer out of you the fust time.”
“I rather think you’ll find him in the barn,” said Jack.
“You think wrong this time. I know I sha’n’t find him in the barn. Do you know why?” said the merry man, with his upper lip at his nose. “Because I sha’n’t go to the barn and look. Is that a good reason? How long before you’ll be through milking?”
“I don’t know; not very soon, unless somebody comes and helps me.”
“S’pose I help you. I can milk. I’m an old hand at it. Never shall forgit my fust trial, though! Visiting my uncle—Sunday-go-to-meeting clo’es on—he told me to look out; but I was a little smarter ’n anybody else in the world, them days: I could milk! So I took holt—both hands—milked one stream into my vest-pocket and t’ other into my eye, and quit. Thought that would do for a fust lesson.”
“I don’t know why you should help me milk,” said Jack, as Sellick was getting a pail and stool.
“’T will keep me out of mischief, while I’m waiting. Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do. Which cow kicks? I don’t want anything to do with a kicking cow. I used to have one, a fust-class kicker. Hit me once; thought the lightning had struck the haystack! I tried tying her leg. Tied it to an old sleigh under the shed; she kicked that to pieces. Tied it to the sill of the barn; and by George! she started to kick the barn down. Tied it then to an old grin’stone lying in the yard; and at the fust kick she sent it like a pebble from a sling right over the kitchen chimbly, quarter of a mile at least; fell into Welby’s bog; sunk so deep I’ve never thought ’t would pay to fish it out.”
“What did you do with her then?” Jack asked, trying to forget his troubles in listening to this nonsense.