Link [giving a final whittle to the yoke-collar thong].
Thar!
When he's ben steamed a spell, and bended snug,
I guess this feller'll sarve t' say "Gee" to—
[Lifting the other yoke-collar from beside his chair, he holds the whittled thong next to it, comparing the two with expert eye.]
and "Haw" to him. Beech every time, Sir; beech or walnut. Hang me if I'd shake a whip at birch, for ox-yokes.—Polly, are ye thar?
Polly.
Yes, Uncle Link.
Link. What's that I used to sing ye?
"Polly, put the kittle on,
Polly, put the kittle on,
Polly, put the kittle on—" [Chuckling.]
We'll give this feller a dose of ox-yoke tea!
Polly.
The kettle's boilin'.
Link. Wall, then, steep him good.
[Polly takes from Link the collar-thong, carries it to the work-bench, shoves it into the narrow end of the box, which she then closes tight and connects—by a piece of hose—to the spout of the kettle. At the further end of the box, steam then emerges through a small hole.]
Polly.
You're feelin' smart to-day.
Link. Smart!—Wall, if I could git a hull man to swap legs with me, mebbe I'd arn my keep. But this here settin' dead an' alive, without no legs, day in, day out, don't make an old hoss wuth his oats.