“I’ll take the Swede there.”
“He’s my station hand. Maybe Jake can drive you. Nels, where’s Jake?”
“He’s dere in the stable. Shake!” he shouted, without glancing up, and Jake slouched out into the yard.
“Jake, here’s a gentleman wants you to drive him out into the country,––”
“I’ll take the Swede. Jake can drive your station wagon for once.”
G. B. Stiles laughed good-humoredly and returned to the piazza and sat tilted back with his feet on the rail not far from Harry King, who was intently reading the New York Tribune. For a while he eyed the young man covertly, then dropped his feet to the floor and turned upon him with a question on the political situation, and deliberately engaged him in conversation, which Harry King entered into courteously yet reluctantly. Evidently he was preoccupied with affairs of his own.
In the stable yard a discussion was going on. “Dot horse no goot in buggy. Better you sell heem any vay. He yoomp by de cars all tam, und he no goot by buggy.”
“Well, you’ve got to take him by the buggy, if he is no good. I won’t let Jake drive him around the trains, and he won’t let Jake go with him out to Rigg’s Corners, so you’ll have to take the gray and the buggy and go.” The Swede began a sullen protest, but the proprietor shouted back to him, “You’ll do this or leave,” and walked in.
Nels went then into the stable, smiling quietly. He was well satisfied with the arrangement. “Shake, you put dot big horse by de buggy. No. Tak’ d’oder bridle. I don’t drive heem mit ol’ bridle; he yoomp too quvick yet. All tam yoomping, dot horse.”