The remaining competitors now went on with the sport. A few rounds showed plainly that Odum or Bostwick would be the victor, but which no one could tell.

Whenever either of them came round, the gander’s neck was sure of a severe wrench. Many a half pint of Jamaica was staked upon them, besides other things. The poor gander withstood many a strong pull before his wailings ceased. At length, however, they were hushed by Odum. Then came Bostwick and broke the neck. The next grasp of Odum, it was thought, would bear away the head, but it did not. Then Bostwick was sure of it, but he missed it. Now Odum must surely have it. All is interest and animation. The horses sweep round with redoubled speed—every eye is upon Odum—his backers smiling—Bostwick’s trembling. To the rope he comes—lifts his hand—when lo! Fat John Fulger had borne it away the second before. All were astonished—all disappointed, and some were vexed a little: for it was now clear, that, “if it hadn’t o’ been for his great fat paw,” to use their own language, Odum would have gained the victory. Others inveighed against “that long-legged Zube Zin, who was so high, he did not know when his feet were cold, for bringing such a nag as Sall Spitfire to a gander-pullin’; for if he’d o’ been in his place, it would have flung Bostwick right were that gourd o’ hogs’ lard (Fulger) was.”

Fulger’s conduct was little calculated to reconcile them to their disappointment.

“Come here, Neddy Prater,” said he, with a triumphant smile, “let your Uncle Johnny put his potato-stealer (hand) into that hat, and tickle the chins of them are shiners a little. Oh you little shining critters, walk into your Mas’ Johnny’s pocket, and jingle so as Arch Odum and Gory Bostwick may hear you! You hear ’em, Gory? Boys don’t pull with men. I’ve jist got my hand in; I wish I had a pond full of ganders here now, jist to show you how I could make their heads fly. Bet all I’ve won, you may hang three upon that rope, and I’ll set Slouch at full speed and take off the heads of all three, the first grab, two with my hands and one with my teeth.”

Thus he went on, but really there was no boasting in this; it was all fun, for John knew, and all were convinced that he knew, that his success was entirely the result of accident. John was really a “good-natured fellow,” and his cavorting had an effect directly opposite to that which the reader would suppose that it had—it reconciled all to their disappointment, save one. I except Billy Mixew of Spirit Creek, who had staked the net proceeds of six quarts of mukle-berries upon Odum, which he had been long keeping for a safe bet. He could not get reconciled, until he fretted himself into a pretty little piney-woods fight, in which he got whipt; and then he went home perfectly satisfied. Fulger spent all his winnings with Prater, in treats to the company—made most of them drunk, and thereby produced four Georgia rotations,[[8]] after which all parted good friends.

[8] I borrowed this term from Jim Inman, at the time: “Why, Jim,” said I to him, just as he rose from a fight, “what have you been doing?” “Oh,” said he, “nothing but taking a little rotation with Bob McManus.”

V.
HOW MIKE HOOTER
CAME VERY NEAR “WALLOPING” ARCH COONY.

In the Yazoo Hills, near the town of Sartartia, in the good State of Mississippi, there lived at no distant date one Mike Hooter, whose hunting and preaching adventures became famous in all the land. Besides being a great bear-hunter and hard to beat at preaching, Mike professed to be “considerable” of a fighter, and in a regular knock-down and drag-out row was hard to beat.

In order that the world may not remain in darkness as to his doings in this last behalf, and fearing lest there may be no one who entertains for him that particularly warm regard which animates us towards him, we have thought it incumbent on us, in evidence of our attachment for the reverend hero, to jot down an instance that lingers in our memory respecting him, bequeathing it as a rich legacy to remotest time.