“Didn’t ye dast to trust the deakin?” asked Mrs. Bixbee.

“Polly,” said David, “the’s a number of holes in a ten-foot ladder.”  Mrs. Bixbee seemed to understand this rather ambiguous rejoinder.

“He must ‘a’ squirmed some,” she remarked.  David laughed.

“The deakin ain’t much used to payin’ the other feller’s price,” he said, “an’ it was like pullin’ teeth; but he wanted that hoss more’n a cow wants a calf, an’ after a little more squimmidgin’ he hauled out his wallet an’ forked over.  Mike come out with the roan, an’ off the deakin went, leadin’ the bay hoss.”

“I don’t see,” said Mrs. Bixbee, looking up at her brother, “thet after all the’ was anythin’ you said to the deakin thet he could ketch holt on.”

“The’ wa’n’t nothin’,” he replied.  “The only thing he c’n complain about’s what I didn’t say to him.”

“Hain’t he said anythin’ to ye?” Mrs. Bixbee inquired.

“He, he, he, he!  He hain’t but once, an’ the’ wa’n’t but little of it then.”

“How?”

“Wa’al, the day but one after the deakin sold himself Mr. Stickin’-Plaster I had an arrant three four mile or so up past his place, an’ when I was comin’ back, along ’bout four or half past, it come on to rain like all possessed.  I had my old umbrel’—­though it didn’t hender me f’m gettin’ more or less wet—­an’ I sent the old mare along fer all she knew.  As I come along to within a mile f’m the deakin’s house I seen somebody in the road, an’ when I come up closter I see it was the deakin himself, in trouble, an’ I kind o’ slowed up to see what was goin’ on.  There he was, settin’ all humped up with his ole broad-brim hat slopin’ down his back, a-sheddin’ water like a roof.  Then I seen him lean over an’ larrup the hoss with the ends of the lines fer all he was wuth.  It appeared he hadn’t no whip, an’ it wouldn’t done him no good if he’d had.  Wa’al, sir, rain or no rain, I jest pulled up to watch him.  He’d larrup a spell, an’ then he’d set back; an’ then he’d lean over an’ try it agin, harder’n ever.  Scat my ——!  I thought I’d die a-laughin’.  I couldn’t hardly cluck to the mare when I got ready to move on.  I drove alongside an’ pulled up.  ‘Hullo, deakin,’ I says, ‘what’s the matter?’ He looked up at me, an’ I won’t say he was the maddest man I ever see, but he was long ways the maddest-lookin’ man, an’ he shook his fist at me jest like one o’ the unregen’rit.  ’Consarn ye, Dave Harum!’ he says, ‘I’ll hev the law on ye fer this.’  ‘What fer?’ I says.  ‘I didn’t make it come on to rain, did I?’ I says.  ’You know mighty well what fer,’ he says.  ‘You sold me this damned beast,’ he says, ‘an’ he’s balked with me nine times this afternoon, an’ I’ll fix ye for ‘t,’ he says.  ‘Wa’al, deakin,’ I says, ’I’m ’fraid the squire’s office ’ll be shut up ’fore you git there, but I’ll take any word you’d like to send.  You know I told ye,’ I says, ’that he’d stand ‘ithout hitchin’.’  An’ at that he only