“What ails you,” he asked, “that you turn and twist in bed and sigh so loud that a body scarce can sleep.”
“It’s no wonder I sigh and cannot sleep,” answered his wife. “I have been thinking and turning things over in my mind, and I can see very plainly that you do not love me as a good husband should love his wife.”
“How can you say that?” asked her husband. “Have I not treated you well in all these years? Have I not shown my love in every way?”
“Yes, but you do not trust me,” said his wife. “You do not tell me what is in your heart.”
“What have I not told you?”
“You have never told me about Feetgong; you have never told me why it is that he goes like the wind whenever you mount him, and when any one else rides him he is so slow there is no getting anywhere with him.” Then she began to sob as if her heart would break. “You do not trust me,” said she.
“Wait, wait!” cried the Goodman. “That is a secret I had never thought to tell any one, but since you have set your heart on knowing—listen! Only you must promise not to tell a living soul what I tell you now.”
His wife promised.
“Then this is it,” said her husband. “When I want Feetgong to go moderately fast I slap him on the right shoulder; when I want him to stop I slap him on the left shoulder, and when I want him to go like the wind I blow upon the dried windpipe of a goose that I always carry in the right-hand pocket of my coat.”
“Now indeed I know that you love me when you tell me this,” said his wife. And then she went to sleep, for she was satisfied.