Yancy.
"He means the fo'teenth of December," explained Mr. Crenshaw.
"Not wishin' to dispute your word, Mr. John, I mean Christmas,"
objected Yancy.
"Oh, very well, he means Christmas then!" said Crenshaw.
"The evening befo', it was, and I'd gone to Fayetteville to get
my Christmas fixin's; there was right much rain and some snow
falling." Mr. Yancy's guiding light was clearly accuracy. "Just
at sundown I hooked up that blind mule of mine to the cart and
started fo' home. As I got shut of the town the stage come in
and I seen one passenger, a woman. Now that mule is slow, Mr.
John; I'm free to say there are faster mules, but a set of
harness never went acrost the back of a slower critter than that
one of mine." Yancy, who thus far had addressed himself to Mr.
Crenshaw, now turned to Bladen. "That mule, sir, sees good with
his right eye, but it's got a gait like it was looking fo' the
left-hand side of the road and wondering what in thunderation had
got into it that it was acrost the way; mules are gifted with
some sense, but mighty little judgment."
"Never mind the mule, Bob," said Crenshaw.
"If I can't make the gentleman believe in the everlasting
slowness of that mule of mine, my story ain't worth a hill of
beans," said Yancy.
"The extraordinary slowness of the mule is accepted without
question, Mr. Yancy," said Bladen.
"I'm obliged to you," rejoined Yancy, and for a brief moment he
appeared to commune with himself, then he continued.
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