The following short story is reprinted from The Three Brides, Love in a Cottage, and Other Tales. Francis A. Durivage. Boston: Sanborn, 1856.
It was at the close of a fine, autumnal afternoon, that a simple-looking traveller, attired in a homespun suit of gray, and wearing a broad-brimmed, Quaker-looking hat, drove up to the door of the Spread Eagle Tavern, in the town of B——, State of Maine, kept by Major E. Spike, and ordered refreshments for himself and horse. There was nothing particular about the traveller, except his air of simplicity; but his horse was a character. The animal was at least thirty years of age, and was as gaunt as Rosinante, and would have been a dear bargain at fifteen dollars. The traveller acknowledged that he had been taken in somewhat when he bought the animal, for he "wasn't a horse jockey," and "did'nt know much about critters!" However, he added, "that if he had good luck in his trip down east, [he was agent for a Hartford Life Assurance Company,] he meant to pick up something handsome in the way of horse flesh to take home with him." After communicating his name and business, and sundry other particulars, with a frankness which, while it satisfied the curiosity, excited the contempt of Major Spike, the stranger, whom we shall call Zebulon Smith, departed.
He had a business call to make on the widow Stebbins, who lived about three miles off, in a very old, unfinished, shingled house, of immense extent, in the centre of an unfenced lot, the chief products of which were rocks, brambles, and barberry bushes.
"Keep much stock, Miss Stebbins?" said he, as, having transacted his business, he prepared to resume his journey.
"Why, no," said she; "I'm a lone woman, and hain't got no help; so I keep only a cow and that 'ere colt. I wish I could sell him, for I ain't got nobody to break him in properly."
Zebulon looked at the colt. He was a limpsey, long-legged, shaggy animal, with a ewe-neck, drooping head, and little, undecided tail, completely knotted up with burs; but then he was only five years old.
"Heow'll yeou trade, Miss Stebbins?" asked the agent. "I've a mind to take the critter, if you'll trade even, though I don't know the pints of a horse. I ain't a horse jockey. Heowever, you're a lone woman, and I want to oblige you. You hain't got nobody to break the colt for you, and here's my hoss would suit you to a T. He's a nice family hoss."
"Heow old is he?" asked Mrs. Stebbins.
"He's risin' six years," said Zebulon, and so he was.
"He looks pretty well along," said the widow. "How much boot will you give me?"
"Boot!" exclaimed Zebulon. "O, if you talk about boot, I'm off. I ain't no horse jockey, but I know I'm flingin' my hoss—good old hoss—away by tradin' even. But generosity and consideration for widders—specially good-lookin' ones—was allers a failin' in my family."
"I don't know as I had orter," said the widow, thoughtfully; "if Mr. Stebbins was alive, you wouldn't get the colt so cheap, for he sot every thing by him. He's sot his pedigree down in the births, deaths, and marriages, in our family Bible. He allers said, poor man, he was goin' to make a great hoss."
"That 'ere was an optical delusion," said the agent; "he warn't never a goin' to make a great hoss, and he won't never be a great hoss. I know so much, if I ain't a horse jockey. Come, now, what say? Shall I ungear, and leave my critter, or put on the string and be a travellin'?"
"You may have the colt," said the widow, bursting into tears, and retiring, unable to witness the consummation of the sacrifice.
"Come, young Burtail," said Zebulon, addressing the colt. "It's time you was sot to work. I don't know whether you ever had a collar over your darned ewe-neck or not. I don't see how any thing short of a crooked-neck squash could fit it; but I'll try mine on." And with these words he harnessed up the colt, and leaving his old "hoss" with the widow, drove on his way rejoicing.
About fifteen miles farther east, he stopped and put up at a tavern, where he made an arrangement to leave the colt for a week, hiring the landlord's horse to pursue his journey. He gave directions to have the colt fed high in the interim, to have his tail nicked and put in pulleys, his head checked up, and his coat carefully shaved according to the new practice. A very astute hostler promised that every thing should be done according to his directions, and to his perfect satisfaction.
Accordingly, in a week's time, when Zebulon came back, he hardly knew his bargain. The colt was fat as a hog. His sides shone like silver; his mane was neatly trimmed; his tail was crimped, and rose and fell in a graceful curve; and he carried his head as proudly as an Arabian.
With the metamorphosed animal in the fills, the agent drove back to the Spread Eagle, and put up for the night. In the morning, he ordered his team, and paid his bill. Major Spike, who was great on horses, standing at the front door, was struck with the appearance of his guest's "cattle."
"Been buying a new hoss?" said the major.
"Yes; I thought I'd try one, though I ain't a horse jockey," answered the agent, making an excuse to examine the buckles of his harness.
"Don't want to sell him, do you?" said the major.
"Why, no, major, I reckon not. I expect he'll suit me fust rate. I'm doin' pooty well, now, and can afford to hev' somethin' nice. I calklate to keep him."
"I don't like his color," said the major.
"Well, I do," said Zebulon, getting into his wagon. "Good mornin', major."
"Hold on," said the major. "I've got a hoss I want to show you. Jake, bring out the bay, and let Mr. Smith have a squint at him."
The hostler brought out a square-built, chunky, bay horse, in fine condition, and looking like a capital roadster.
"What do you think of that hoss, Mr. Smith?" asked the major, triumphantly.
"Pretty fair hoss," said the agent. "But I tell you I'm no judge of horses; I ain't a horse jockey."
"Well, now, I tell you what," said the major; "I'm a darned fool for doin' of it; but when I take a fancy, I don't mind expense to gratify it. I'm willing to swap hosses even with you."
"Even!" screamed the agent. "Now, major, that's a good one. I ain't a horse jockey. I don't know the value of the critters; but I ain't altogether a reg'lar, soft-headed, know-nothin' fool; and if I had a mind to part with this 'ere splendiferous animal, I should want boot."
"You're a hard one," said the major; "but as fur as twenty dollars——"
"Twenty dollars! get out," said the agent, indignantly. "G'lang, Bob!" and he actually started his team.
"Hold on!" roared the major. "What do you want?"
"Say forty, and I'll do it—no, I won't," said the agent.
"You said you would. It's a bargain. You said forty, didn't he, Jake?"
The hostler could not deny it.
"Well, you're the hardest customer I ever see!" muttered the agent, as he got out of the wagon. "This is the wust mornin's work I ever did. Let me have your old bay, and be a travellin'. You'd hev' a fellur's eye teeth afore he knowed it, ef you wanted 'em."
The major chuckled as he counted out forty dollars and handed them to the agent. He eagerly assisted the hostler to ungear the coveted horse; and when the bay was harnessed up, did not urge the agent to stop, and the latter drove off, looking as melancholy as if he had buried all his relations.
The major drove out with his new purchase that very day; but his performance did not equal his expectations. However, as an experienced horse jockey, he knew that great allowances are to be made for a green horse, and he promised to train him up to "2.50," at the least. But before one week had passed over his head, his expectations were all dashed. There was no "go" in the animal. His nose dropped to the ground, his tail slunk, and his toes dug into the gravel as if he was boring for water. The major had to confess that he had been completely taken in.
"That infernal rascal!" said he; "I wish I could catch him here again."
"You ain't very likely to," remarked Jake, the hostler, dryly.
"Why so? Do you know any thing about him? Did you ever see him before?"
"Ever see him! why, he came from the same place that I did."
"Where's that?"
"Meredith Bridge."
"Meredith Bridge!" exclaimed the landlord. "And he said he wasn't a horse jockey. O, what an ass I was."
"Very true," said the hostler.
"Any how, you never saw the horse before?" said the landlord.
"Never see the horse before!" exclaimed Jake. "Why, Lord bless you, I know'd him soonsever I sot eyes on him. He's Miss Stebbins's colt."
"And you never told me of this, you scoundrel!"
"I want a goin' to spile a trade," said the hostler. "And then I've heard you say so often that nobody could take you in on a hoss, that I thought it warnt no use."
"The cussed swindler!" said the major. "After havin' shaved every body he came across, he went and shaved a hoss, and put him off on me—me, the greatest hossman in the State of Maine. The next chap from Meredith Bridge that comes into these diggins, I'll get a fight out of and lick him, jest as sure as my name's Elnathan Spike!"
More Francis A. Durivage Short Stories
