“‘Ah, dat’s better,’ sez he, ‘an mo’ restful.’
“At de gate Marse Peter stop us, an’ say: ‘Am you ridin’ or walkin’ suh?’
“‘Ridin’ dis time, yo’ Honoh,’ sey de Kunnel.
“‘Good,’ sez Peter, a-glancin’ at me, ‘but I don’t like de looks ob dat swayback scrub you’re ridin’, so I’ll jes’ let you hitch ’im to de fence, but you kin walk in!’
“An’ de ole Kunnel, he hitch me to de fence sho’ ’nuff, an’ walked in widout battin’ his eye or sayin’ much obleeged, an’ dar I wus champin’ a shoestring bit, tied to de fence ob heab’n, wid a gallus line, an’ dodgin’ a hoss-fly es big as a turkey gobbler dat wus buzzin’ aroun’ over de bluff nigh-by.
“Peter look at me a long time, sorter smilin’ an’ sorter mad, an den he sez: ‘Thort you’d fool me, did you? Wal, for dis decepshun, I’ll turn you into a sho’ nuff hoss,’ and befo’ I c’u’d say scat, boss, I wus a black Hal pacer, wid two white feet, a star, snip, black mane and tail, so help me Gord, an’ dat ’ar hoss-fly es big es a turkey was buzzin’ aroun’ tryin’ to bore a hole in me.
“Gimme anurver dram, boss.”
I thought he was entitled to it.
“But dat wa’n’t all. F’um dat day on dey didn’t do nuffin’ but use me on dat road, carryin’ folks up to de gate, but nurver gittin’ in myse’f. An’ dey wucked me ’twell I almos’ drapped dead ag’in. An’ I carried Jews an’ Turks an’ Chinese, an’ eb’ry kind o’ man dat urver libbed, ’twell de golden pike wus a pile ob brass, an’ de sun was a furnace ob fiah, an’ me de hoss, a-doin’ all de totin’.
“An’ ebry day ole Peter ’u’d lead me to de bluff an’ let me look ober on de pit down below. An’ dar I seed folks I nurver dreamed ’u’d be dar, in dis wurl’, an’ I failed ter see udders dat I thort ’u’d be dar on de hottes’ gridiron. Dar wus heathens a-wonderin’ what it all meant, an’ Christians still ’sputin’ on baptism an’ santerfercashun, an’ ev’ry one ob ’em, boss, a-holdin’ a fat Afercan heathen ’twixt him an’ de fiah. Greeks, Turks, niggers, Jews, Spanyards—all dar, boss. Dar wus doctors, still a-lyin’ an’ lookin’ wise, an’ when de yudders called fur water de debbil had ’em to dose ’em wid quinine an’ calermel, or cut open de reel bad men huntin’ fur de ’pendix. Lawyers? Boss, if hell only had a bookcase an’ a dirty carpet, cuspedores an’ a sweatin’ lot ob bad-smellin’ jurors, you’d a-thort it wus some ord’nary co’te-house wid a fiah attachment. In one corner dey had penned off a lot ob ole wimmens, all talkin’ an’ argyin’ at onct, an’ I ax Peter whut dey wus, an’ he sed dey wus de muthers ob de wives ob men, an’ dey had to be penned off dar ter keep ’em frum runnin’ de place an’ bossin’ it deyselves.