Rick said nothing, but he looked at Rod curiously. Rick is a sunny–tempered child who never bears malice, and I don't think he quite understood. He gets his temper from his mother, as a horse should.
"I've been there too, Rod," said Tedda. "Open confession's good for the soul, an' all Monroe County knows I've had my experriences."
"But if you will excuse me, suh, that pusson"—Tweezy looked unspeakable things at the yellow horse—"that pusson who has insulted our intelligences comes from Kansas. An' what a ho'se of his position, an' Kansas at that, says cannot, by any stretch of the halter, concern gentlemen of our position. There's no shadow of equal'ty, suh, not even for one kick. He's beneath our contempt."
"Let him talk," said Marcus. "It's always interestin' to know what another horse thinks. It don't tech us."
"An' he talks so, too," said Tuck. "I've never heard anythin' so smart for a long time."
Again Rod stuck out his jaws sidewise, and went on slowly, as though he were slugging on a plain bit at the end of a thirty–mile drive:
"I want all you here ter understand thet ther ain't no Kansas, ner no Kentucky, ner yet no Vermont, in our business. There's jest two kind o' horse in the United States—them ez can an' will do their work after bein' properly broke an' handled, an' them as won't. I'm sick an' tired o' this everlastin' tail–switchin' an' wickerin' abaout one State er another. A horse kin be proud o' his State, an' swap lies abaout it in stall or when he's hitched to a block, ef he keers to put in fly–time that way; but he hain't no right to let that pride o' hisn interfere with his work, ner to make it an excuse fer claimin' he's different. That's colts' talk, an' don't you fergit it, Tweezy. An', Marcus, you remember that hem' a philosopher, an' anxious to save trouble,—fer you ate,—don't excuse you from jumpin' with all your feet on a slack–jawed, crazy clay–bank like Boney here. It's leavin' 'em alone that gives 'em their chance to ruin colts an' kill folks. An', Tuck, waal, you're a mare anyways—but when a horse comes along an' covers up all his talk o' killin' with ripplin' brooks, an wavin grass, an' eight quarts of oats a day free, after killn' his man, don't you be run away with by his yap. You're too young an' too nervous."
"I'll—I'll have nervous prostration sure ef there's a fight here," said Tuck, who saw what was in Rod's eye; "I'm—I'm that sympathetic I'd run away clear to next caounty."
"Yep; I know that kind o' sympathy. Jest lasts long enough to start a fuss, an' then lights aout to make new trouble. I hain't been ten years in harness fer nuthin'. Naow, we're goin' to keep school with Boney fer a spell."
"Say, look a–here, you ain't goin' to hurt me, are you? Remember, I belong to a man in town," cried the yellow horse, uneasily. Muldoon kept behind him so that he could not run away.
"I know it. There must be some pore delooded fool in this State hez a right to the loose end o' your hitchin'–strap. I'm blame sorry fer him, but he shall hev his rights when we're through with you," said Rod.
"If it's all the same, gentlemen, I'd ruther change pasture. Guess I'll do it now."
"'Can't always have your 'druthers. 'Guess you won't," said Rod.
"But look a–here. All of you ain't so blame unfriendly to a stranger. S'pose we count noses."
"What in Vermont fer?" said Rod, putting up his eyebrows. The idea of settling a question by counting noses is the very last thing that ever enters the head of a well–broken horse.
"To see how many's on my side. Here's Miss Tuck, anyway; an' Colonel Tweezy yonder's neutral; an' Judge Marcus, an' I guess the Reverend [the yellow horse meant the Deacon] might see that I had my rights. He's the likeliest–lookin' Trotter I've ever set eyes on. Pshaw. Boys. You ain't goin' to pound me, be you? Why, we've gone round in pasture, all colts together, this month o' Sundays, hain't we, as friendly as could be. There ain't a horse alive I don't care who he is—has a higher opinion o' you, Mr. Rod, than I have. Let's do it fair an' true an' above the exe. Let's count noses same's they do in Kansas." Here he dropped his voice a little and turned to Marcus: "Say, Judge, there's some green food I know, back o' the brook, no one hain't touched yet. After this little fracas is fixed up, you an' me'll make up a party an' 'tend to it."
Marcus did not answer for a long time, then he said: "There's a pup up to the haouse 'bout eight weeks old. He'll yap till he gits a lickin', an' when he sees it comin' he lies on his back, an' yowls. But he don't go through no cirkituous nose–countin' first. I've seen a noo light sence Rod spoke. You'll better stand up to what's served. I'm goin' to philosophise all over your carcass."
"I'm goin' to do yer up in brown paper," said Muldoon. "I can fit you on apologies."
"Hold on. Ef we all biffed you now, these same men you've been so dead anxious to kill 'u'd call us off. 'Guess we'll wait till they go back to the haouse, an' you'll have time to think cool an' quiet," said Rod.
"Have you no respec' whatever fer the dignity o' our common horsehood?" the yellow horse squealed.
"Nary respec' onless the horse kin do something. America's paved with the kind er horse you are—jist plain yaller–dog horse—waitin' ter be whipped inter shape. We call 'em yearlings an' colts when they're young. When they're aged we pound 'em—in this pastur'. Horse, sonny, is what you start from. We know all about horse here, an' he ain't any high–toned, pure souled child o' nature. Horse, plain horse, same ez you, is chock–full o' tricks, an' meannesses, an' cussednesses, an' shirkin's, an' monkey–shines, which he's took over from his sire an' his dam, an' thickened up with his own special fancy in the way o' goin' crooked. Thet's horse, an' thet's about his dignity an' the size of his soul 'fore he's been broke an' rawhided a piece. Now we ain't goin' to give ornery unswitched horse, that hain't done nawthin' wuth a quart of oats sence he wuz foaled, pet names that would be good enough fer Nancy Hanks, or Alix, or Directum, who hev. Don't you try to back off acrost them rocks. Wait where you are! Ef I let my Hambletonian temper git the better o' me I'd frazzle you out finer than rye–straw inside o' three minutes, you woman–scarin', kid–killin', dash–breakin', unbroke, unshod, ungaited, pastur'–hoggin', saw–backed, shark–mouthed, hair–trunk–thrown–in–in–trade son of a bronco an' a sewin'–machine!"
"I think we'd better get home," I said to my companion, when Rod had finished; and we climbed into the coupe, Tedda whinnying, as we bumped over the ledges: "Well, I'm dreffle sorry I can't stay fer the sociable; but I hope an' trust my friends'll take a ticket fer me."
"Bet your natchul!" said Muldoon, cheerfully, and the horses scattered before us, trotting into the ravine.
Next morning we sent back to the livery–stable what was left of the yellow horse. It seemed tired, but anxious to go.
The Ship That Found Herself
It was her first voyage, and though she was but a cargo–steamer of twenty–five hundred tons, she was the very best of her kind, the outcome of forty years of experiments and improvements in framework and machinery; and her designers and owner thought as much of her as though she had been the Lucania. Any one can make a floating hotel that will pay expenses, if he puts enough money into the saloon, and charges for private baths, suites of rooms, and such like; but in these days of competition and low freights every square inch of a cargo–boat must be built for cheapness, great hold–capacity, and a certain steady speed. This boat was, perhaps, two hundred and forty feet long and thirty–two feet wide, with arrangements that enabled her to carry cattle on her main and sheep on her upper deck if she wanted to; but her great glory was the amount of cargo that she could store away in her holds. Her owners—they were a very well known Scotch firm—came round with her from the north, where she had been launched and christened and fitted, to Liverpool, where she was to take cargo for New York; and the owner's daughter, Miss Frazier, went to and fro on the clean decks, admiring the new paint and the brass work, and the patent winches, and particularly the strong, straight bow, over which she had cracked a bottle of champagne when she named the steamer the Dimbula. It was a beautiful September afternoon, and the boat in all her newness—she was painted lead–colour with a red funnel—looked very fine indeed. Her house–flag was flying, and her whistle from time to time acknowledged the salutes of friendly boats, who saw that she was new to the High and Narrow Seas and wished to make her welcome.