The bystanders laughed, and Lem climbed into his waggon in still greater good humour. He turned a beaming face on the new owner of the gray mare. The aforesaid owner of the gray mare was not a whit disconcerted. He pulled a bit of strap iron from his pocket and pinched it over the mare’s nostrils. “There’s some ‘outs’ that’s wusser’n whistlin’,” he said mysteriously as he adjusted the strap iron. “You might as well git your laugh in now, Lem. There’s nothin’ like gittin’ in a laugh at one end or t’other of a trade.” Most of Lem’s gayety left him, and he looked at the stump-tailed horse with some anxiety. “Now look-a-here, Ben,” said he, “I don’t want no circus animile tucked off onto me to-day, for I’ve took a contract from Hime Look to haul some of the old lamed-up codgers to town meetin’.” “You didn’t say nothin’ to me about your contracts,” replied the tall man, clawing a freckled hand through his beard. “All I got to say is, lamed-up old codgers better crawl here on their hands and knees instead of ride with you. Now, you know there ain’t goin’ to be no backin’ outs on this trade,” he expostulated as he saw a dubious look come on Lem’s face. “Who said there was goin’ to be?” retorted the other. He started to lay the reins down across the dasher with the evident intent of getting out to investigate his purchase a little closer, when the horse, who had been peering around at him from the corner of a bloodshot eye, performed a sudden and surprising action. He whirled his stump of a tail as though it worked on a pivot, clutched the reins under it, and started with a jump that lifted both fore wheels of the waggon off the ground. The man tugged desperately at the reins, his feet against the dasher, but the “webbin’s” remained fixed under the tail, and the horse kept on down the muddy road with speed undiminished. When the outfit went out of sight around a turn the man was down on his knees tugging at the stump and shouting “Whoa!” “I reckon,” said the possessor of the gray mare, twirling a strand of his ginger-coloured beard into a spill and reflectively tickling his nose, “that Lem has got holt of a pa’snip there that he won’t pull up in no great hurry. That’s a hoss,” he continued, turning to the bystanders, who had watched the runaway with astonished silence, “that I got plastered on to me about three weeks ago and then found out that I’d got holt of that Iron Tail Ike, as they call him. He’s give more folks a h’ist than any other hoss in this county.” “What will happen to Lem?” inquired one of the men. “It all depends on how high he flies and what he strikes on when he comes down,” calmly answered the tall man. “Hoss swappin’ is hoss swappin’, of course,” said another in the group; “but this sellin’ folks blastin’ powder with red hair on it ain’t very neighbourly, as I look at it.”