“But I have, Bud—sho' as you are born I love old Ben Butler.” He lowered his voice to an earnest whisper: “I ain't never told you what he done for po' Cap'n Tom.”
“Never heurd o' Cap'n Tom.”
The Bishop looked hurt. “Never mind, Bud, you wouldn't understand. But maybe you will ketch this, listen now.”
Bud listened intently with his head on one side.
“I ain't never hated a man in my life but what God has let me live long enough to find out I was in the wrong—dead wrong. There are Jews and Yankees. I useter hate 'em worse'n sin—but now what do you reckon?”
“One on 'em busted a plate on yo' head?” asked Bud.
“Jesus Christ was a Jew, an' Cap'n Tom jined the Yankees.”
“Bud,” he said cheerily after a pause, “did I ever tell you the story of this here Ben Butler here?”
Bud's eyes grew bright and he slapped his leg again.
“Well,” said the old man, brightening up into one of his funny moods, “you know my first wife was named Kathleen—Kathleen Galloway when she was a gal, an' she was the pretties' gal in the settlement an' could go all the gaits both saddle an' harness. She was han'som' as a three-year-old an' cu'd out-dance, out-ride, out-sing an' out-flirt any other gal that ever come down the pike. When she got her Sunday harness on an' began to move, she made all the other gals look like they were nailed to the roadside. It's true, she needed a little weight in front to balance her, an' she had a lot of ginger in her make-up, but she was straight and sound, didn't wear anything but the harness an' never teched herself anywhere nor cross-fired nor hit her knees.”