ed the Bishop; "they say when
old folks begin to take it they jus' go to sleep while settin' up
talkin'. Now, a horse, Bud," he said, striking an attitude for a
discussion on his favorite topic, "a horse is like a man--he must have
some meanness or he c'udn't live, an' some goodness or nobody else c'ud
live. But git in, Bud, and let's go along to meetin'--'pears like it's
gettin' late."

This was what Bud had been listening for. This was the treat of
the week for him--to ride to meetin' with the Bishop. Bud, a
slubber-slave--henpecked at home, brow-beaten and cowed at the mill,
timid, scared, "an' powerful slow-mouthed," as his spouse termed it,
worshipped the old Bishop and had no greater pleasure in life, after his
hard week's work, than "to ride to meetin' with the old man an' jes'
hear him narrate."

The Bishop's great, sympathetic soul went out to the poor fellow, and
though he had rather spend the next two miles of Ben Butler's slow
journey to church in thinking over his sermon, he never failed, as he
termed it, "to pick up charity even on the roadside," and it was
pretty to see how the old man would turn loose his crude histrionic
talent to amuse the slubber. He knew, too, that Bud was foolish about
horses, and that Ben Butler was his model!

They got into the old buggy, and Ben Butler began to draw it slowly
along the sandy road to the little church, two miles away up the
mountain side.

CHAPTER II

BEN BUTLER

Bud was now in a seventh heaven. He was riding behind Ben Butler, the
greatest horse in the world, and talking to the Bishop, the only
person who ever heard the sound of his voice, save in deprecatory and
scary grunts.

It was touching to see how the old man humored the simple and
imposed-upon creature at his side. It was beautiful to see how,
forgetting himself and his sermon, he prepared to entertain, in his
quaint way, this slave to the slubbing machine.

Bud looked fondly at the Bishop--then admiringly at Ben Butler. He
drew a long breath of pure air, and sitting on the edge of the seat,
prepared to jump if necessary; for Bud was mortally afraid of being
in a runaway, and his scared eyes seemed to be looking for the soft
places in the road.

"Bishop," he drawled after a while, "huc-cum you name sech a
hoss"--pointing to the old roan--"sech a grand hoss, for sech a
man--sech a man as he was," he added humbly.

"Did you ever notice Ben Butler's eyes, Bud?" asked the old man,
know