Ain't got no hoss
but that dummed ol' plug."
He had forgotten his enthusiasm of the preceding moment. His
intellect was a museum of freaks. Therein, Vanity was the
prodigious fat man, Memory the dwarf, and Veracity the living
skeleton. When Vanity rose to show himself, the others left the
stage.
Tunk's face had become suddenly thoughtful and morose. In truth,
he was an arrant and amusing humbug. It has been said that
children are all given to lying in some degree, but seeing the
folly of it in good time, if, indeed, they are not convinced of its
wickedness, train tongue and feeling into the way of truth. The
respect for truth that is the beginning of wisdom had not come to
Tunk. He continued to lie with the cheerful inconsistency of a
child. The' hero of his youth had been a certain driver of
trotting horses, who had a limp and a leaning shoulder. In Tunk,
the limp and the leaning shoulder were an attainment that had come
of no sudden wrench. Such is the power of example, he admired,
then imitated, and at last acquired them. One cannot help thinking
what graces of character and person a like persistency would have
brought to him. But Tunk had equipped himself with horsey heroism,
adorning it to his own fancy.
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