Jim F. Why, that old brindle mule. When the stable went it riled him so he’s got his grit up an’, dumme, if he aint just kickin’ the cyclone to strings right an’ left; he’s splittin’ it wide open.
Adolph. Gwacious me!
Jim F. But it’ll git the better of ’im, I ’low. He’s gittin old an’ short-winded an’ that cyclone holds a full hand. There goes a cabin. Look at it, major. Why, I’ll be shot if there aint three coon skins nailed on the door an’ a nigger smokin’ a pipe, as cool as patent ice.
Adolph. Gwacious, my twunk!
Sol. I. Oont no inzurance? No? I’ll write an emerchency bolicy for fifty per zent extra.
Town. Jim, you’ve a good eye to see coon skins in that light.
Jim F. (Looks again.) Hanged, if I wasn’t mistaken. It’s fox skins. Might a knowed that by the rings on the tails. Old Brindle’s knocked out! No, he isn’t. He’s taken a hitch round an apple tree with his tail. There goes the tree, roots an’ all, an’ the mule holdin’ on by his tail. The cabin’s out o’ sight now.
Mrs. B. Mercy me, Jim, d’ye see any cyars? John’s in the cyars.
Jim F. No, Mrs. Baggs, I don’t see no cyars, but if there doesn’t go half a mile o’ track sailin’ along over the tree tops.