FullReads

It was Bill Tilghman who once had delivered himself of the sage remark that “A mule an’ a nigger is ‘zackly alike–‘specially de mule.”

“Can’t tek Blue Wing, Mist’ Givens,” answered Bill. “She done went up to Mist’ Gallowayses’ blacksmith shop to git herse’f some new shoes.”

This pluralization of a familiar name was evidence on Bill Tilghman’s part of the estimation in which he held our leading farrier, Mr. P. J. Galloway.

“All right, take one of the other mules then. But get a hustle on,” ordered Mr. Givens as he reentered his office.

“Dat bein’ de case, I reckin I’ll tek dat white Frank mule,” said Red Hoss. “‘Tain’t no use of him standin’ in de stall eatin’ his ole fool haid off jes’ ’cause Tom Montjoy is laid up.”

“Boy,” said Bill Tilghman, “lissen! You ‘cept a word of frien’ship an’ warnin’ f’um somebody dat’s been kicked by more mules ‘en whut you ever seen in yore whole life, an’ you let dat Frank mule stay right whar he is. You kin have yore choice of de Maud mule or de Maggie mule or Friday or January Thaw; but my edvice to you is, jes’ leave dat Frank mule be an’ don’t pester him none.”

“How come?” demanded Red Hoss. “I reckin I got de strength to drive ary mule dey is.”

“I ain’t sayin’ you ain’t,” stated Bill Tilghman. “A born ijiot could drive dat mule, so I jedge you mout mek out to qualify. ‘Tain’t de drivin’ of him–hit’s de hitchin’ up of him which I speaks of.”

Tallow Dick put in, “Hit’s dis way wid dat Frank: In his early chilehood somebody muster done somethin’ painful to dat mule’s haid, an’ it seem lak it lef’ one ondurin’ scar in his mind. Anyway, f’um dat day hencefor’ard he ain’t let nobody a-tall, let alone hit’s a plum’ stranger to him lak you is, go prankin’ round his haid. Ef you think a mule’s back end is his dangersome end you jes’ try to walk up to ole Frank face to face, ez nigger to mule, an’ try to hang de mule jewelry over his years. Da’s all, jes’ try it! Tom Montjoy is de onliest one which kin slip de bit in dat mule’s mouf, an’ de way he do it is to go into de nex’ stall an’ keep speakin’ soothin’ words to him, an’ put de bridle on him f’um behinehand of his shoulder lak. But when Tom Montjoy ain’t wukkin’, de Frank mule he ain’t wukkin’ neither any. Yessuh, Tom Montjoy is de sole one which dat Frank mule gives his confidences to, sech as dey is.”

Red Hoss snorted his contempt for his warning.

“Huh, de trouble wid dat mule is he’s pampered! You niggers done pamper him twell he think he owns dese whole ice-factory premises. Whut he need fur whut ails him is somebody which ain’t skeered of him. Me, I aims to go ‘crost to dat stable barn over yonder ‘crost de street an’ walk right in de same stall wid dat Frank same ez whut I would wid ary other mule, an’ ef he mek jes’ one pass at me I’m gwine up wid my fistes an’ give him somethin’ to brood over.”

Bill Tilghman looked at Tallow Dick, looking at him sorrowfully, as though haunted by forebodings of an impending tragedy, and shook his head slowly from side to side. Tallow Dick returned the glance in kind, and then both of them gazed steadfastly at the vainglorious new hand.

“Son, boy,” inquired old Bill softly, “whut is de name of yore mos’ favorite hymn?”

“Whut my favorite hymn got to do wid it?”

“Oh, nothin’, only I wuz jes’ studyin’. Settin’ yere, I got to thinkin’ dat mebbe dey wuz some purticular tune you might lak sung at de grave.”

“An’ whilst you’s tellin’ Unc’ Bill dat much, you mout also tell us whar ’bouts in dis town you lives at?” added Tallow Dick.