"What's the limit?" shouts Pinckney.
"Ten an hour or ten dollars," says he.
"Here's your ten and costs," says Pinckney, tossing him a sawbuck. "Go ahead, François."
We jumped into that village ordinance at a forty-mile an hour clip and would have had Rajah hull down in about two minutes, but Pinckney had to take one last look. The poor old mutt had quit after a few jumps. He had squat in the middle of the road, lifted up his trombone frontispiece and was bellowin' out his grief like a calf that has lost its mommer. Pinckney couldn't stand for that for a minute.
"I say now, we'll have to go back," says he. "That wail would haunt me for days if I didn't."
So back we goes to Rajah, and he almost stands on his head, he's so glad to see us again.
"We'll just have to slip away without his knowing it next time," says Pinckney. "Perhaps he will get over his gratitude in an hour or so."
We unhitches Rajah from the stable floor and starts back for the hotel. The landlord met us half-way.
"Don't you bring that critter near my place ag'in!" shouts he. "Take him away before he tears the house down."
An' no jollyin' nor green money would change that hayseed's mind. The whole population was with him too. While we were jawin' about it, along comes the town marshal with some kind of injunction warnin' us to remove Rajah, the same bein' a menace to life and property.