“Wan’t no man!” I exclaimed in feigned surprise, “what was it?”
“Ay Lawd, don’t ax me, case I don’t know. He had des one big glass eye right in de middle er ’is for’ed, an’ dat thing whut ’es on des er fryin’ an’ er stewin’, en er goin’ right on down de road. I tell yer, I’s sheer fer sho’ nuff; en I say, ‘O please, Mars Debil, hab mussey on me!’ En he sorter ris up, he did, and say, plum savage like, ‘Here, you ole black rascal, you git outen my ’cheen, fore I knocks all de flah outen yer!’ En, sah, I didn’t take time ter say er nother word; I des fell outen de hine een er dat thing right flat er my back in de middle er de big road, en hit like ter busted me wide open. Time I got up an’ sorter scratch de grabel outen my years, I could hear dat thing er spit-spitten, en er git-gitten way on down dar erbout de creek, des clar gone. I gunter sorter look er roun’ fer Jack, en ’ud you bleeve it? dat ole mule wus down dar er grazin’ side de road, des es innercent as er lam’ in de spring er de year. I went on down dar, I did, en tuck hol’ ’im an’ I say, ‘You ole hippercrit, I’ll larn you how ter ’have de nex time we meet de debil an’ hees wagin.’ An’ I gib dat mule de awfulest beaten!”
STERLING C. BREWER.
Jim and the Old Pacer.
It’s a cold day, indeed, when a drummer has not got a good yarn up his coat-sleeve, and the narrator of this swears to its truth in every particular.
We were sitting around a good fire the other evening when the subject of last winter’s cold spell came up and how much fun the boys over the line were having on the path; and, incidentally, how greatly the interest in snow races among gentlemen drivers was increasing each winter.
“But, say,” said the drummer, who was selling cigars and had just passed around some to sample, “talking about the fun the boys had up North on the snow last winter reminds me how a farmer and an old pacer, up in a fashionable little town in the State of York, where I happened to be last month, hit the snow enthusiasm of that class of fellows who thought they owned the best snow horse in the world with a blizzard that will cool them off till the spring time comes, gentle Annie. At least, they hadn’t got over it when I left two weeks ago,” he laughed. “We didn’t have any snow until after Christmas, and when the cold wave, with snow, did come, you bet they were all waiting for it. Fellows with fine sleighs bought in October and put in the carriage house began to think they would have to wait another year, while the trotters and pacers were eating their heads off, and hundreds of friendly wagers lay in pigeon holes, waiting for the snow. Well, when it came, it was a dandy, and the snow path soon saw dozens of races a day, with fine rigs and fun galore.
“I’ve got a driver friend who lives near the big town mentioned—runs a training stable in the suburbs. You’d know him in a minute if I’d call his name, for he has driven many a good one to victory, and he’s got a pacer you’d know, too, for he has a mark below 2:12. But this pacer is an onery-looking thing, if I ever saw one. He wouldn’t sell on his looks for fifteen dollars, yet he won thirty-five hundred dollars last year clear of expenses. My friend bought him out of a log-wagon—a curby-legged thing, with log spavins and splints in swarms, but gee whiz, how he could pace! Jim—that’s my friend’s name—loves a little fun about as well as anybody. He didn’t go out on the snow path the first week until he found out just who could go and how fast, and then he just laid for the whole gang with that old pacer. The boys drove out to his stable time and again and bantered him, guyed him, made fun of him and all that, but he laid low and said nothing. One evening he sent for me and whispered:
“‘Want to make your winter oats tomorrow?’
“‘I don’t care,’ I laughed, ‘if it’s a dead sure thing. Haven’t got any money to burn up in an experiment.’