He was silent a moment. Then he showed the old man a scar on his forehead: “She done that last month—busted a plate on my head.”
“That’s bad,” said the Bishop consolingly—“but you ortenter aggravate her, Bud.”
“That’s so—I ortenter—least-wise, not whilst there’s any crockery in the house,” said Bud sadly.
“There’s another thing about this hoss,” went on the Bishop—“he’s always spoony on mules. He ain’t happy if he can’t hang over the front gate spoonin’ with every stray mule that comes along. There’s old long-eared Lize that he’s dead stuck on—if he c’u’d write he’d be composin’ a sonnet to her ears, like poets do to their lady love’s—callin’ them Star Pointers of a Greater Hope, I reck’n, an’ all that. Why, he’d ruther hold hands by moonlight with some old Maria mule than to set up by lamplight with a thoroughbred filly.”
“Great—great!” said Bud slapping his leg—“didn’t I tell you so?”
“So I named him Ben Butler when he was born. That was right after the war, an’ I hated old Ben so an’ loved hosses so, I thought ef I’d name my colt for old Ben maybe I’d learn to love him, in time.”
Bud shook his head. “That’s ag’in nature, Bishop.”
“But I have, Bud—sho’ as you are born I love old Ben Butler.” He lowered his voice to an earnest whisper: “I ain’t never told you what he done for po’ Cap’n Tom.”
“Never heurd o’ Cap’n Tom.”
The Bishop looked hurt. “Never mind, Bud, you wouldn’t understand. But maybe you will ketch this. Listen now.”