It had been altogether assumed: as was proved by the earnest attitude that instantly replaced it.
Striding across the paved causeway, that separated the two rows of stalls, he entered that occupied by the sorrel.
The animal shied off, and stood trembling against the wall—perhaps awed by the look of resolution with which the hunter had approached it.
“Stan’ still, ye brute!” chided Zeb. “I don’t mean no harm to you, tho’ by yur looks I reck’n ye’re as vicious as yur master. Stan’ still, I say, an let’s hev a look at yur fut-gear!”
So saying, he stooped forward, and made an attempt to lay hold of one of the fore-legs.
It was unsuccessful. The horse suddenly drew up his hoof; and commenced hammering the flags with it, snorting—as if in fear that some trick was about to be played upon him.
“Durn your ugly karkidge!” cried Zeb, angrily venting the words. “Why don’t ye stan’ still? Who’s goin’ to hurt ye? Come, ole critter!” he continued coaxingly, “I only want to see how youv’e been shod.”
Again he attempted to lift the hoof, but was prevented by the restive behaviour of the horse.
“Wal, this air a difeequilty I didn’t expeck,” muttered he, glancing round to see how it might be overcome. “What’s to be did? It’ll never do to hev the nigger help me—nor yet see what I’m abeout—the which he will ef I don’t get quick through wi’ it. Dog-gone the hoss! How am I to git his feet up?”
For a short while he stood considering, his countenance showing a peevish impatience.