"Do as you like," K——, Jr., replied. "I know nothin' 'bout yer agreement."
We covered the first mile in slow time. Coonskin's new steed was forever stopping, and straying out of the road to eat grass. The young man wore himself out keeping her moving by rapping her with the flat side of a hatchet. This big, brown jenny was made of the right stuff, but evidently lacked training and experience.
We were yet a half mile to Blairstown when a young woman and a child drove toward us with a skittish horse. It acted as though it had never seen a donkey. It pricked up its ears, and snorted, and, so help me Balaam! in a jiffy that buggy was on its side, the girls on the ground, and the horse running to beat a cyclone. Luckily, the girls escaped injury. My master was as frightened as he was chivalrous, and assisting the girls to their feet, invited them to ride us donkeys to town; which kind offer was respectfully declined.
On our arrival, Pod took us to a blacksmith's to have the new donkey's fore feet measured for a pair of shoes. The smith seemed to be much taken with me, and said I had the smallest feet of all the gentlemen donks he ever met. The remark so tickled my vanity that I nibbled at his coat tail, whereupon he turned to me and inquired, "What kind of a donkey are you? Chinese?"
"Not much," said I, indignantly, "My name is Irishy, and I always supposed I was a thoroughbred Irish ass, but I'm beginning to believe I'm a roamin' donkey, after all."
I could see that Pod expected trouble from some quarter, but none of us knew just where the lightning would strike. The next village, Luzerne, lay fifteen miles to the west. My lady companion did not carry herself too gracefully, nor her rider, either. She was broad and flat across the hips, and, as Coonskin did not possess a saddle, he found it more comfortable to sit far back on her where he could get a good swing of the fence rail he substituted for a whip.
We were ambling peacefully along the dusty road late in the afternoon, when Pod broke the silence with a word to his valet.
"Well, Coonskin," said he, "what 're you going to call your donkey?"
"Damfino," said Coonskin; and he added, with a drawl, "Git ap."
"You ought to have found a suitable name by this time."