Bud looked fondly at the Bishop—then admiringly at Ben Butler. He drew a long breath of pure air, and sitting on the edge of the seat, prepared to jump if necessary, for Bud was mortally afraid of being in a runaway, and his scared eyes seemed to be looking for the soft places in the road.
“Bishop,” he drawled after a while, “huc-cum you name sech a hoss”—pointing to the old roan—“sech a grand hoss, for sech a man—sech a man as he was,” he added humbly.
“Did you ever notice Ben Butler’s eyes, Bud?” asked the old man knowingly.
“Blind,” said Bud sadly, shaking his head—“too bad—too bad—great—great hoss!”
“Yes, but the leds, Bud—that hoss, Ben Butler there, holds a world’s record—he’s the only cock-eyed hoss in the world.”
“You don’t say so—that critter!—cock-eyed?” Bud laughed and slapped his leg gleefully. “Didn’t I always tell you so? World’s record—great—great!”
Then it broke gradually through on Bud’s dull mind.
He slapped his leg again. “An’ him—his namesake—he was cock-eyed, too—I seed him onct at New ’Leens.”
“Don’t you never trust a cock-eyed man, Bud. He’ll flicker on you in the home-stretch. I’ve tried it an’ it never fails. Love him, but don’t trust him. The world is full of folks we oughter love, but not trust.”
“No—I never will,” said Bud as thoughtfully as he knew how to be—“nor a cock-eyed ’oman neither. My wife’s cock-eyed,” he added.