Pete was testing the strength of a stout oak pole driven into the ground, across whose fork was lashed, like the cross-bar of a "T," a leaf-stripped sapling. To the tip of this rod the negro was tying the legs of a big, white goose, whose extended wings and pendant head betrayed compliance with inexorable law.
"Hit's a damn shame," Pete murmured, as he anointed the creature's neck and head with liberal smearings of lard. "Whar de fun o' pullin' on a ole daid t'ing lak dis? But Ah hope dey'll tink hit's great!" And he beat vigorously on a pan to attract the attention of all hearers.
"Gen'lemen. O-oh, gen'lemen!" he cried, at the top of his lungs. "Now fo' a great ole gander-pullin'! De only one we've had in dis settle-ment fo' t'ree year. Every gen'leman as craves to enter dis gander-pullin' will kin'ly ride up here and de-posit a quarter 'f a dollar. Only twenty-five cen's fo' de priv'lege o' takin' a pull at dis yer goose,—warranted a tasty goose! One-half dis sum o' money goes to de gen'leman who succeeds in re-movin' de haid from dis fowl, an' also de goose hitself, which sho' do look lak good eatin'!"
Pete's old hat soon sagged with the coins that were tossed into it, while his keen eye noted each entry as surely as if he wrote the name in black and white. It would have been useless for anyone to try to enter the lists without paying the proper fee.
Two lines of excited onlookers served at once to define a lane, whose ultimate point was the gallows whereon hung the goose, and to rouse to excitement the horses, whose overworked spirits did not respond promptly to the sudden stimulus.
They cheered the aspirants with jovial condemnation.
"Show us what yo' ole plug c'n do, 'Gene."
"Sho', Alf, you-all ain' goin' to ride that po' critter!"
"He's powerful gaunted up, yo' war-horse, Bud."
"Mighty strength'nin' ploughin' is, but not stimmerlatin'!"