"Heavens! I've had my share o'
bangin'. Can't conquer a skittish hoss without sufferin' some--not
allwus. Now, here's a boss," he added, as they walked to a stall.
"He ain't much t' look at, but--"
He paused a moment as he neared the horse--a white and ancient
palfrey. He stood thoughtfully on "cocked ankles," every leg in a
bandage, tail and mane braided,
"Get ap, Prince," Tunk shouted, as he gave him a slap. Prince
moved aside, betraying evidence of age and infirmity.
"But--" Tunk repeated with emphasis.
"Ugly?" the teacher queried.
"Ugly!" said Tunk, as if the word were all too feeble for the fact
in hand. "Reg'lar hell on wheels!--that's what he is. Look out!
don't git too nigh him. He ain't no conscience--that hoss ain't."
"Is he fast?"
"Greased lightnin'!" said Tunk, shaking his head. "Won
twenty-seven races."
"You're a good deal of a horseman, I take it." said the teacher.
"Wal, some," said he, expectorating thoughtfully. "But I don't
have no chance here. What d'ye 'spect of a man livin,' with them
ol' maids ?"
He seemed to have more contempt than his words would carry.
"Every night they lock me upstairs," he continued with a look of
injury; "they ain't fit fer nobody t' live with.
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