The horse played a part of no small importance in that country.  He was the coin of the realm, a medium of exchange, a standard of value, an exponent of moral character.  The man that travelled without a horse was on his way to the poorhouse.  Uncle Eb or David Brower could tell a good horse by the sound of his footsteps, and they brought into St Lawrence County the haughty Morgans from Vermont.  There was more pride in their high heads than in any of the good people.  A Northern Yankee who was not carried away with a fine horse had excellent self-control.  Politics and the steed were the only things that ever woke him to enthusiasm, and there a man was known as he traded.  Uncle Eb used to say that one ought always to underestimate his horse ’a leetle fer the sake of a reputation’.

We needed another horse to help with the haying, and Bob Dean, a tricky trader, who had heard of it, drove in after supper one evening, and offered a rangy brown animal at a low figure.  We looked him over, tried him up and down the road, and then David, with some shrewd suspicion, as I divined later, said I could do as I pleased.  I bought the horse and led him proudly to the stable.  Next morning an Irishman, the extra man for the haying, came in with a worried look to breakfast.

‘That new horse has a chittern’ kind of a coff,’ he said.

‘A cough?’ said I.

‘’Tain’t jist a coff, nayther,’ he said, ‘but a kind of toom!’

With the last word he obligingly imitated the sound of the cough.  It threw me into perspiration.

‘Sounds bad,’ said Uncle Eb, as he looked at me and snickered.

‘’Fraid Bill ain’t much of a jockey,’ said David, smiling.

‘Got a grand appetite — that hoss has,’ said Tip Taylor.

After breakfast Uncle Eb and I hitched him to the light buggy and touched him up for a short journey down the road.  In five minutes he had begun to heave and whistle.  I felt sure one could have heard him half a mile away.  Uncle Eb stopped him and began to laugh.

‘A whistler,’ said he, ‘sure’s yer born.  He ain’t wuth a bag o’ beans.  But don’t ye never let on.  When ye git licked ye musn’t never fin’ fault.  If anybody asks ye ’bout him tell ’em he’s all ye expected.’

We stood waiting a moment for the horse to recover himself.  A team was nearing us.

‘There’s Bob Dean,’ Uncle Eb whispered.  ’The durn scalawag!  Don’t ye say a word now.

‘Good-mornin’!’ said Dean, smiling as he pulled up beside us.

‘Nice pleasant mornin’!’ said Uncle Eb, as he cast a glance into the sky.

‘What ye standin’ here for?’ Dean asked.

Uncle Eb expectorated thoughtfullyy.

‘Jest a lookin’ at the scenery,’ said he.  ’Purty country, right here!  AIwus liked it.’

‘Nice lookin’ hoss ye got there,’ said Dean.

‘Grand hoss!’ said Uncle Eb, surveying him proudly.  ’Most reemarkable hoss.’