"I've bought this blamed hoss frum Bill Stone an' I want to
leave 'im heer with you. I want you to put 'im through any sort o'
work you see fit; he's too blam' fat an' frisky anyhow."
Westerfelt comprehended the whole situation, but he did not want to
accept the horse. "Why, Mr. Hunter, really--" he began.
"Oh, we'll take yore hoss," laughed Washburn. "We kin take the kinks
out'n his mane an' tail an' make 'im wish he never wus born. Oh,
Lordy, yes, we want 'im, an' ef you've got a good saddle an' bridle ur
a buggy hustle 'em around."
"Well, you'd better 'tend to 'im." Hunter tossed the halter to
Washburn. "I'll be blamed ef I want 'im." And he turned and without
another word walked away.
"It's wuth three o' the one they shot," was Washburn's laconic
observation. He looked the animal over admiringly and slapped him so
vigorously under the belly that the horse grunted and humped his back.
Cartwright, like nearly every other Georgian village, had its lawyer.
Bascom Bates was a young man of not more than thirty, but he was
accounted shrewd by many older legal heads, who had been said to have
advised him to move to a larger place.
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