“Hits an infernal lie!” returns Bill, emphatically.
“Yas,” begins a cadaverous-cheeked, long-drawn-out denizen from over the mountain, who has circled clear around the animal and his rider: “He’s the very hoss-brute ez hed it. Tuk hit when they wuz drivin’ ’im in Toe Eldridge’s sorghum mill.”
The rider, meanwhile, begins to look discouraged.
“He kicked Tom Malley powerful bad, ef thet’s the animal Tom uster own,” chimes in another observer.
“Mebby you thinks this hoss needs buryin’,” remarks Bill, sarcastically; “He’ll hev more life in ’im twenty ye’r from now than airy o’ you’uns hey ter-day.”
“Ef he aint blind on his off side ye kin ride over me,” says one critic; turning the horse’s head around, and then dropping the bridle as Bill reaches over to strike him.
“He’s a good ’un on the go, tho’;” and at this bland remark of a friendly farmer, Bill begins to revive.
“You’re right,” exclaims the rider.
“Is thet so!” thunders a heavy-set fellow, following his utterance by clasping Bill around the waist and hauling him off the steed, which proves to be old enough to stand still without demurring.
“I reckon I’ll try him myself, Bill,” he says, as he thrusts one foot into the stirrup, and throws a long leg over the saddle, “and ef he’s got a fa’r gait I mought gin ye a swap. Look at yan mule, while I ride him sorter peert for a few rod.”