“I understan's, I understan's, Archie B., that wus the Lord's doin's,—ten to one on the monkey, Archie—ten to one!”
“An' that you had ten dollars in gold around yo' neck in a little bag, given you by your ole Granny when she died—an' knowin' how the Lord wus for the monkey, an' it bein' a dead cinch, an' all that—an' these fellers blowin' an' offerin' to bet ten to one—an' seein' you c'ud pick it up in the road—all for the little church, mind you, Bishop—”
“Archie B.,” exclaimed the old man excitedly, “them bein' the facts an' the thing at stake, with that ole dorg an' Jud Carpenter at the bottom of it, I'd a put it up on the monkey, son—fur charity, you know, an' fur the principle of it,—I'd a put it up, Archie B., if I'd lost ever' cent!”
“Exactly, Bishop, an' I did—at ten to one—think of the odds! Ten to one, mighty nigh as great as wus ag'in David.”
“An' you won, of course, Archie B., you won in a walk?” said the old man breathlessly. “God was fur you an' the monkey.”
Archie B. smiled triumphantly and pulled out his handful of gold. The old man sat down on a log, dazed.
“Archie B., sho'ly, sho'ly, not all that? An' licked the dorg, an' that gang, an' cleaned 'em up?”
Archie B. told him the story with all the quaint histrionic talent of his exuberant nature.
The Bishop sat and laughed till the tears came.
“An' Bonaparte went down the road with the monkey holt his tail—the champion dorg—an' you won all that?”