The constable felt that it was useless to argue further with such a philosopher, and rode on for some time in silence; then he desperately exclaimed: “Cuddy, what’ll you take to go home again? I can’t bother any longer with you. I’ve got to go to Wickford to-night, and you can’t walk there.” The old negro shook his head profoundly and thoughtfully, and sighed deeply, as though abandoning with keen regret a dearly loved and cherished plan; then he said, solemnly: “No bribe’ll ebber soil dis hand while it fills de office ob de Gub’nor’s seat! But dey do say de best charm eber seed ter bring good luck forebber is ter look at a constable a-dancin’ ober runnin’ water. Now here’s de bridge an’ a good dancin’-floor. I’ll hole der hoss an’ sing ‘Old Charmany Fair,’ an’ you dance, ter bring good luck ter me in de ’lection next week. Den I s’pose I’ll hab ter gib up going ter jail dis time just ter please yer.” The constable was stunned by this audacious and fairly insulting proposition; but being thoroughly convinced that Cuddy was half demented, he thought it better to yield at once to the stubborn negro’s condition, and thus save his precious and much-wasted time. He jumped from his horse and angrily yanked off Cuddy’s blanketful of jail equipage, and threw it on the ground. He glanced apprehensively up and down the road to see that there was no approaching traveller to spread the tale of his ridiculous discomfiture and abject submission, and then walked to the middle of the bridge and began to sullenly dance to Cuddy’s lively and rollicking dance-tune. The jolly song and dismal jig were nearly ended, when a most surprising and inexplicable event took place. The constable’s sedate and quiet horse gave a sudden snort, reared, broke away from Cuddy’s restraining hand, and plunged violently down the hill. “Stop her! Stop her, Cuddy!” roared Mr. Cranston, as he suddenly ceased his forced dance and began to run. “I ain’t agoin’ ter run none after dat ole hoss,” said Cuddy; “I’se got de rheumatiz’ too bad. You jess see ef you can’t run faster as you can dance. You can’t catch her, dough,” he called after the retreating sheriff. “I know she’s conjured by de way she run. It always do conjure a hoss to see a constable a-dancin’ ober runnin’ water.”