“Golly!” exclaimed the driver.
“What’s the matter?” again demanded Bar.
“Low feed,” replied the animal, or at least so it seemed to the driver, and again he exclaimed:
“Golly!” and added a long whistle of utter astonishment.
“What do they give you?” asked Bar.
“Shingle nails and lager beer,” dolefully returned the now clearly harassed animal. “Don’t bother me!”
“Think of it!” exclaimed Bar. “No wonder he can’t travel fast on such feed as that. I can see ’em sticking through him, now. Poor fellow.”
“Poor fellow, yourself,” stammered the driver. “Look a-here, young man, who be you?”
“Who am I?” replied Bar. “Why, I’m half horse, myself, on my aunt’s side, and her right hand side at that. You don’t think they’d tell me any lies, do you?”
“They did, though,” replied the driver, who had edged away as far as the seat would let him.