Quashy, therefore, ran back to the hollow with the intention of catching the horses, mounting his own, and driving the other before him to the camp.
And now began that interesting but somewhat exhausting and heart-breaking process which may be styled coquetting with a free horse.
Full of glad enthusiasm, the negro ran towards his own steed, holding out his right hand, and exclaiming, “Come along, Ole Scrubby.”
He had named the horse Ole Scrubby owing to some sort of facetious perversity of his own temperament, for the horse, instead of being “ole,” was quite young, and, far from being scrubby, it was a remarkably fine animal.
“Come now, Ole Scrubby,” repeated the man, “we’s got no time to waste. D’ee hear?”
Evidently it heard, for, after allowing its master to advance within three feet of it, and even putting out its nose to smell his black hand, it gave a snort, turned round, tossed up its heels, and trotted away. Stopping short suddenly it turned again and looked at its master with a high head, as if to say, “There! what think you of that?”
“You ole scoundril,” growled the negro, with an injured look, “di’n’t I say we’s got no time to waste? eh! Come, now. Das enuff o’ your fun.”
He had again approached to within three feet or so, and again the playful steed had protruded its nose and even touched his hand, but before that hand could grasp the halter, tail and heels were in the air, and away it went a second time.
Indignation, intensified to the uttermost, sat on Quashy’s countenance. “Scrubs,” he said, solemnly—modifying the name a little, as he became more serious—“you nebber doo’d dat before! Come, sar, you ’bey orders, an’ stan’ still.”
But the horse refused to obey orders, and declined to stand still. His master began to lose temper—if we may so speak of one who only became a little less amiable than usual. Under the influence of the condition, however, whatever it was, he became unjust, and began to call his horse names.