mbed into
this moth-eaten vehicle, whose wheels pointed outward and inward all at
the same time, she never permitted the child to forget that it was her
own sweet willingness thus to risk her life which made these excursions
possible. She was in the big house now, inspecting every surface and
crevice for a particle of dust, contemptuously sniffing and
soliloquizing:

"De place is jest nachelly gwine to rack an' ruin! Zack ain' got no moh
sense 'bout takin' cyare of a house den a rag-dawl!"

The Shetland pony, meanwhile, was standing at a safe distance from Uncle
Zack's mule, looking very wicked indeed with its long forelock hanging
frowsily between its eyes, and seeming to have comprehended some of the
slanders which this old darky--making a great pretense of being
angry--had uttered. To the side, and ready to champion her little
friend, stood Mesmie, daughter of Bradford, the overseer, with one bare
foot pressing nervously on the instep of its mate, and her fingers
twisting the end of her long, golden plait. This was apprehension, not
embarrassment. The old negro's pretended anger invariably deceived this
little girl--as it frequently puzzled the boy.

"Dar ain' no use talkin'," Uncle Zack stamped the ground. "I'se been
waitin' on de May fam'ly fer up'ards of a hund'ed yeahs, an' dis am de
fu'st time any of 'em done 'sult me!"

There was a pause while Bip looked at him with wide, serious eyes, and
the Colonel from his secluded vantage point silently chuckled.

"I didn't mean to insult you, Uncle Zack," the little boy explained. "I
only said that Daniel, here, couldn't have anything to do with such a
mis'rable mule. Daniel's a thoroughbred!"

"Thurerbred!" Zack scornfully repeated. "Jes' heah dat! Why, he ain' big
'nough to be no kind o' bred! He ain' got 'nough blood in 'im to call it
real breedin'!"

The boy's face flushed. "He's by Shadeland Wildon," he cried, "and out
of Hurstbourne Trinket! I'd like to see you find any pony stock better'n
that!"

Uncle Zack appeared to ponder over this. As a matter of fact, he had
once told Bip this same thing in these very words. Now he temporized by
squinting up at the sun.

"An' what's more," the little fellow hotly declared, "they're both
registered way back to the war--an' lots before that! Grandfather says
if he didn't know Daniel was Daniel, he'd think he was Shadeland Wildon
every time I rode him in here--'cause he's got his sire's chestnut an'
white markin's to