Sam’s pipe always rolled to the corner of his mouth and turned upside down when the chorus began. One fumbling hand would pull out his ancient, silver watch and he would fix his gaze fiercely on the second hand. From the chorus he would select one voice and count the “chocks” while he timed the singer. One hundred and seventy “chocks” per minute was the best time he had ever recorded. The poorest, seventy per minute, was made by a fellow whose little round belly hinted that he might have a bit of rockchip blood in him.
From far down the meadow, where a clear stream foamed over ragged rocks, came the eager whinny of a horse. Sam’s eyes lighted, and he shoved the big, silver watch into his pocket. Up the meadow galloped a trim black mare. Her mane flowed in the wind as she shook her head, and kicked her heels recklessly.
“Purty, right purty,” Sam muttered as he took his pipe out of his mouth.
The trim mare slowed to a trot as she neared the cabin. With a toss of her head and a playful leap to one side, she trotted up to Sam and extended her soft muzzle, nickering eagerly.
“Mornin’, Lady Ebony,” Sam said affectionately. “Think mebby ol’ Sam’s got a lump o’ sugar?”
Lady Ebony pawed and nickered.
Sam dug a hand into his pants pocket and brought out two dingy lumps of sugar. He dusted off a grain or two of tobacco and a little chaff, then held one of them out.
“Jest a bite, ol’ gal,” he said.
Lady Ebony picked the sugar from between his thumb and finger with a dainty movement of her lips. She crunched the lump eagerly, and when it was gone she pricked her ears forward and pawed.
Sam grinned widely. “Dang me, if you can’t count,” he said.