Dar happen to dis nigga a great misfortin’.
Ho!—ho! berry great misfortin’.”
“What war it?”
“Golly, Massa Tump, I’se got kicked—dis berry mornin’, jes ’bout an hour arter twelve o’clock in de day.”
“Kicked?”
“Dat I did shoo—all round de ’table.”
“Oh! by the hosses! Which o’ the brutes kicked ye?”
“Ho!—ho! you mistaken!
Not any ob de hosses, but de massa ob dem all—’cept little Spotty da, de which he doan’t own.
I wa kicked by Mass’ Cahoon.”
“The hell ye wur! For what reezun?
Ye must hev been misbehavin’ yurself, nigger?”
“Dis nigga wan’t mis-b’avin’ ’t all; not as he knows on.
I only ask de cap’n what put de ole sorrel in such a dreful condishin dat ere night, an what make ’im be tired down.
He say it not my bizness; an den he kick me; an den he larrup me wif de cow-hide; an den he threaten; an den he tell me, if I ebber ’peak bout dat same ting odder time, he gib me hunder lashes ob de wagon whip.
He swa; oh! how he swa!
Dis chile nebba see Mass Cahoon so mad—nebba, in all ’im life!”
“But whar’s he now?
I don’t see him nowhar’ beout the premises; an I reck’n he ain’t rud out, seein’ as the sorrel’s hyur?”
“Golly, yes, Mass Tump; he jess am rode out at dis time.
He ob late go berry much away from de house an tay long time.”
“A hossback?”
“Jess so.
He go on de steel grey.
Ha!—ha! he doan’ ride de sorrel much now.
He hain’t mount ’im once since de night de ole hoss wa out—dat night we been ’peakin’ ’bout.
Maybe he tink he hab enuf hard ridin’ den, an need long ’pell ob ress.”
“Look’ee hyur, Plute,” said Zeb, after standing silent for a second or two, apparently engaged in some abstruse calculation. “Arter all, I reck’n I’d better let the ole maar hev another yeer or two o’ the corn.
She’s got a long spell o’ travellin’ afore her; an she mout break down on the jurney. The more haste air sometimes the wusser speed; an thurfor, I kalkerlate, I’d better gie the critter her time.
While she’s munchin’ a mouthful, I ked do the same myself. ’Spose, then, you skoot acrosst to the kitchen, an see ef thur ain’t some chawin’ stuff thur—a bit o’ cold meat an a pone o’ corn bread ’ll do.
Yur young mistress wanted me to hev somethin’ to eet; but I war skeert abeout delayin’, an refused.
Now, while I’m waitin’ on the maar, I reck’n I ked pick a bone,—jest to pass the time.”
“Sartin’ ye cud, Mass Tump. I go fotch ’im in de hundreth part ob an instant.”
So saying the black-skinned Jehu started off across the patio, leaving Zeb Stump sole “master of the stole.”
The air of indifference with which he had concluded his dialogue with Pluto disappeared, the moment the latter was outside the door.
It had been altogether assumed: as was proved by the earnest attitude that instantly replaced it.
Striding across the paved causeway, that separated the two rows of stalls, he entered that occupied by the sorrel.
The animal shied off, and stood trembling against the wall—perhaps awed by the look of resolution with which the hunter had approached it.
“Stan’ still, ye brute!” chided Zeb. “I don’t mean no harm to you, tho’ by yur looks I reck’n ye’re as vicious as yur master.
Stan’ still, I say, an let’s hev a look at yur fut-gear!”
So saying, he stooped forward, and made an attempt to lay hold of one of the fore-legs.
It was unsuccessful. The horse suddenly drew up his hoof; and commenced hammering the flags with it, snorting—as if in fear that some trick was about to be played upon him.
“Durn your ugly karkidge!” cried Zeb, angrily venting the words. “Why don’t ye stan’ still?
Who’s goin’ to hurt ye?
Come, ole critter!” he continued coaxingly, “I only want to see how youv’e been shod.”
Again he attempted to lift the hoof, but was prevented by the restive behaviour of the horse.
“Wal, this air a difeequilty I didn’t expeck,” muttered he, glancing round to see how it might be overcome. “What’s to be did?
It’ll never do to hev the nigger help me—nor yet see what I’m abeout—the which he will ef I don’t get quick through wi’ it.
Dog-gone the hoss!
How am I to git his feet up?”