“On the 17th of February, 1835, he sold the old carriage and bought a cheap second-hand buggy—­said a buggy was just the trick to skim along mushy, slushy early spring roads with, and he had always wanted to try a buggy on those mountain roads, anyway.

“On the 1st August he sold the buggy and bought the remains of an old sulky—­said he just wanted to see those green Tennesseans stare and gawk when they saw him come a-ripping along in a sulky—­didn’t believe they’d ever heard of a sulky in their lives.

“Well, on the 29th of August he sold his colored coachman—­said he didn’t need a coachman for a sulky —­wouldn’t be room enough for two in it anyway—­and, besides, it wasn’t every day that Providence sent a man a fool who was willing to pay nine hundred dollars for such a third-rate negro as that—­been wanting to get rid of the creature for years, but didn’t like to throw him away.

“Eighteen months later—­that is to say, on the 15th of February, 1837—­he sold the sulky and bought a saddle—­said horseback-riding was what the doctor had always recommended him to take, and dog’d if he wanted to risk his neck going over those mountain roads on wheels in the dead of winter, not if he knew himself.

“On the 9th of April he sold the saddle—­said he wasn’t going to risk his life with any perishable saddle-girth that ever was made, over a rainy, miry April road, while he could ride bareback and know and feel he was safe—­always had despised to ride on a saddle, anyway.

“On the 24th of April he sold his horse—­said ’I’m just fifty-seven today, hale and hearty—­it would be a pretty howdy-do for me to be wasting such a trip as that and such weather as this, on a horse, when there ain’t anything in the world so splendid as a tramp on foot through the fresh spring woods and over the cheery mountains, to a man that is a man—­and I can make my dog carry my claim in a little bundle, anyway, when it’s collected.  So tomorrow I’ll be up bright and early, make my little old collection, and mosey off to Tennessee, on my own hind legs, with a rousing good-by to Gadsby’s.’

“On the 22d of June he sold his dog—­said ’Dern a dog, anyway, where you’re just starting off on a rattling bully pleasure tramp through the summer woods and hills—­perfect nuisance—­chases the squirrels, barks at everything, goes a-capering and splattering around in the fords —­man can’t get any chance to reflect and enjoy nature —­and I’d a blamed sight ruther carry the claim myself, it’s a mighty sight safer; a dog’s mighty uncertain in a financial way—­always noticed it—­well, good-by, boys—­last call—­I’m off for Tennessee with a good leg and a gay heart, early in the morning.’”

There was a pause and a silence—­except the noise of the wind and the pelting snow.  Mr. Lykins said, impatiently: 

“Well?”

Riley said: 

“Well,—­that was thirty years ago.”