“Come, Mr. Slick,” said I, “we are attracting too much attention here, let us go.”
“Cuss ‘em,” said he, “I’ll attract more attention afore I’ve done yet, when Old Clay comes, and then I’ll tell ‘em who I am—Sam Slick, from Slickville, Onion County, State of Connecticut, United States of America. But I do suppose we had as good make tracks, for I don’t want folks to know me yet. I’m plaguy sorry I let put that countersign of Old Clay too, but they won’t onderstand it. Critters like the English, that know everything have generally weak eyes, from studyin’ so hard.
“Did you take notice of that critter I was a handlin’ of, Squire? that one that’s all drawed up in the middle like a devil’s darnin’ needle; her hair a standin’ upon eend as if she was amazed at herself, and a look out of her eye, as if she thort the dogs would find the steak kinder tough, when they got her for dinner. Well, that’s a great mare that ‘are, and there ain’t nothin’ onder the sun the matter of her, except the groom has stole her oats, forgot to give her water, and let her make a supper sometimes off of her nasty, mouldy, filthy beddin’. I hante see’d a hoss here equal to her a’most—short back, beautiful rake to the shoulder, great depth of chest, elegant quarter, great stifle, amazin’ strong arm, monstrous nice nostrils, eyes like a weasel, all outside, game ears, first chop bone and fine flat leg, with no gum on no part of it. She’s a sneezer that; but she’ll be knocked down for twenty or thirty pound, because she looks as if she was used up.
“I intended to a had that mare, for I’d a made her worth twelve hundred dollars. It was a dreadful pity, I let go, that time, for I actilly forgot where I was. I’ll know better next hitch, for boughten wit is the best in a general way. Yes, I’m peskily sorry about that mare. Well, swappin’ I’ve studied, but I doubt if it’s as much the fashion here as with us; and besides, swappin’ where you don’t know the county and its tricks, (for every county has its own tricks, different from others), is dangersome too. I’ve seen swaps where both sides got took in. Did ever I tell you the story of the “Elder and the grave-digger?”
“Never,” I replied; “but here we are at our lodgings. Come in, and tell it to me.”
“Well,” said he, “I must have a glass of mint julip fust, to wash down that ere disappointment about the mare. It was a dreadful go that. I jist lost a thousand dollars by it, as slick as grease. But it’s an excitin’ thing is a trottin’ race, too. When you mount, hear the word ‘Start!’ and shout out ‘G’lang!’ and give the pass word.”
Good heavens! what a yell he perpetrated again. I put both hands to my ears, to exclude the reverberations of it from the walls.
“Don’t be skeered, Squire; don’t be skeered. We are alone now: there is no mare to lose. Ain’t it pretty? It makes me feel all dandery and on wires like.”
“But the grave-digger?” said I.
“Well,” says he, “the year afore I knowed you, I was a-goin’ in the fall, down to Clare, about sixty miles below Annapolis, to collect some debts due to me there from the French. And as I was a-joggin’ on along the road, who should I overtake but Elder Stephen Grab, of Beechmeadows, a mounted on a considerable of a clever-lookin’ black mare. The Elder was a pious man; at least he looked like one, and spoke like one too. His face was as long as the moral law, and p’rhaps an inch longer, and as smooth as a hone; and his voice was so soft and sweet, and his tongue moved so ily on its hinges, you’d a thought you might a trusted him with ontold gold, if you didn’t care whether you ever got it agin or no. He had a bran new hat on, with a brim that was none of the smallest, to keep the sun from makin’ his inner man wink, and his go-to-meetin’ clothes on, and a pair of silver mounted spurs, and a beautiful white cravat, tied behind, so as to have no bows to it, and look meek. If there was a good man on airth, you’d a said it was him. And he seemed to feel it, and know it too, for there was a kind of look o’ triumph about him, as if he had conquered the Evil One, and was considerable well satisfied with himself.