"Yo' savage, you mean. Now don't you say you've brought pet tigers this time, or tame dragons, 'cause I'll have no more strays at all."
"I've got a roan hawss here who's run a hundred miles since daybreak."
"Bring him in, then."
"He says he's a vegetarian, and cayn't eat ham and eggs."
"I don't care," says Miss Blossom; "we killed our pig to-day, and the slops has just got to be eaten. Waste is ruin."
"My hawss says he'll eat the slops, ma'am, if he can have a drink of whisky along with supper."
"Huh! so you want your vile debaucheries in spite of all I've told you against drink. Well, I 'spose you'll have it."
She ran off to fetch the liquor, which gave me time to bury her salad in the manure heap, and get a decent feed of cornstalks down from the loft. Then I used the whisky to rub down my weary horse, the same being medicine both for man and beast. I had some myself, while Miss Blossom stood by, talking of wicked waste, and how Curly had been neglected.
"Why, she's mo' like a man than a girl!"
"'Spose, ma'am," says I, "that you'd been working in a stable and got shot, then run into gaol, and pulled out through a hole in the wall, and doctored by a robber, and chased around the hills——"