“What game was that he played?” I asked.
“Oh! playin’ horse. See, thar was a crowd of boys come down and kamped on Turpingtine side, to seine. They was but a little ways from the river—leastways thar camp-fire was—and between the river and it, is a pretty knoll, whar the river’s left a pretty bed of white sand as big as a garden spot, and right at it the water’s ten foot deep, and it’s about the same from the top of the bluff to the water.
“A big, one-eyed fellow named Ben Baker, was at the head of the town crowd, and as soon as they’d struck a camp, Ben and his fellers, except one (a lad like), tuck the seine and went away down the river, fishin’, and was gone a’most all day. Well, Dock bein’ of a sharp, splinter-legged, mink-face feller, gits some of his boys, and goes over in the time, and they drinks all Ben’s whiskey and most all his coffee, and eats up all his bacon-meat—’sides bein’ sassy to the boy. Arter a while here comes Ben and his kump’ny, back, wet and tired, and hungry. The boy told ’em Dock Norris and his crowd had eat and drunk up everything, and Ben’s one eye shined like the ev’ning star.
“ ‘Whar’s he?’ axed Ben; and then he turned round and seed Dock and his boys, on thar all-fours squealin’ and rearin’, playin’ horse, they called it, in that pretty sandy place. Ben went right in amongst ’em, and ses he, ‘I’ll play horse, too,’ and then he came down to his all-fours, and here they had it, round and round, rearin’, pitchin’, and cavortin’! Dock was might’ly pleased that Ben didn’t seem mad; but bimeby, Ben got him close to the bank, and then, in a minute, gethered him by the seat of his breeches and the har of the head and slung him twenty foot out in the current. About the time Dock ris, Ben had another of the crowd harnessed, and he throw’d him at Dock! Then he pitched another, and so on, twell he’d thrown ’em all in. You oughter ’a seen ’em swim to the shoals and take that bee-line for home!”
“Why didn’t they turn on him and thrash him?” I asked.
“Oh, you see he was a great big fellow, weighed two hundred, and was as strong as a yoke of oxen; and you know, ’squire, most of the people is mighty puny-like, in the Trot. Well, playin’ horse got broke up after that.”
When the next clearing came into view, I inquired of M’Coy, whose it was.
“Don’t you know, ’squire? Ain’t you never seen him? Why, it’s old Bill Wallis’s place, and he’s our ugly man! The whole livin’, breathin’ yeth ain’t got the match to his picter! His mouth is split every way, and turned wrong-side out, and when he opens it, it’s like spreadin’ an otter trap to set it. The skin’s constant a pealin’ from his nose, and his eyes looks like they was just stuck on to his face with pins! He’s got hardly any skin to shet his eyes with, and not a sign of har to that little! His years is like a wolf’s, and his tongue’s a’most allers hangin’ out of his mouth! His whole face looks like it was half-roasted! Why, he’s obleeged to stay ’bout home; the nabor women is afraid their babies ’ill be like him!”
Just after this last story, we reached a fall of two feet, over which Dick’s plan was to descend bow-foremost, with a “ca-souse,” as he expressed it. But we ran upon a rock, the current swayed us round, and over we went, broadside.
“This is an ugly scrape, Dick,” said I, as soon as we got ashore.