One
absurdly painted horse they agreed would be the most difficult to
ride. Examining his mouth, they disputed as to his age, and called the
cabby to have his opinion of the thing's fetlocks, warning each other
to beware of his rearing. The cabby, who was doubtless also
intoxicated, made an equal pretence of the beast's realness, and
indulged, I gathered, in various criticisms of its legs at great
length.
"I think he's right," remarked the Tuttle person when the cabby had
finished. "It's a bad case of splints. The leg would be blistered if I
had him."
"I wouldn't give him corral room," said Cousin Egbert. "He's a bad
actor. Look at his eye! Whoa! there--you would, would you!" Here he
made a pretence that the beast had seized him by the shoulder. "He's a
man-eater! What did I tell you? Keep him away!"
"I'll take that out of him," said the Tuttle person. "I'll show him
who's his master."
"You ain't never going to try to ride him, Jeff? Think of the wife and
little ones!"
"You know me, Sour-dough. No horse never stepped out from under me
yet. I'll not only ride him, but I'll put a silver dollar in each
stirrup and give you a thousand for each one I lose and a thousand for
every time I touch leather."
Cousin Egbert here began to plead tearfully:
"Don't do it, Jeff--come on around here.
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