“I drove him that race myself, pulled down the five hundred dollar purse, refused all their fine offers for Ben Butler, an' me an' him's been missionaryin' round here ever since.”
“Great hoss—great!” said Bud, his eyes sparkling,—“allers told you so! Think I'll get out and hug him.”
This he did while the Bishop sat smiling. But in the embrace Ben Butler planted a fore foot on Bud's great toe. Bud came back limping and whimpering with pain.
“Now there, Bud,” said the Bishop, consolingly. “God has spoken to you right there.”
“What 'ud He say?” asked Bud, looking scary again.
“Why, he said through Nature's law an' voice that you mustn't hug a hoss if you don't want yo' toes tramped on.”
“Who must you hug then?” asked Bud.
“Yo' wife, if you can't do no better,” said the Bishop quietly.
“My wife's wussern a hoss,” said Bud sadly—“she bites. I'm sorry you didn't take that thar thousan' dollars for him,” he said, looking at his bleeding toe.
“Bud,” said the old man sternly, “don't say that no mo'. It mou't make me think you are one of them selfish dogs that thinks money'll do anything. Then I'd hafter watch you, for I'd know you'd do anything for money.”