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, knowingly. "Blind," said Bud sadly, shaking his head--"too bad--too bad--great--great hoss!" "Yes, but the leds, Bud--that hoss, Ben Butler there, holds a world's record--he's the only cock-eyed hoss in the world." "You don't say so--that critter!--cock-eyed?" Bud laughed and slapped his leg gleefully. "Didn't I always tell you so? World's record--great--great!" Then it broke gradually through on Bud's dull mind. He slapped his leg again. "An' him--his namesake--he was cock-eyed, too--I seed him onct at New 'Leens." "Don't you never trust a cock-eyed man, Bud. He'll flicker on you in the home-stretch. I've tried it an' it never fails. Love him, but don't trust him. The world is full of folks we oughter love, but not trust." "No--I never will," said Bud as thoughtfully as he knew how to be--"nor a cock-eyed 'oman neither. My wife's cock-eyed," he added. He was silent a moment. Then he showed the old man a scar on his forehead: "She done that last month--busted a plate on my head." "That's bad," said the Bishop consolingly--"but you ortenter aggravate her, Bud." "That's so--I ortenter--least-wise, not whilst there's any crockery in the house," said Bud sadly. "There's another thing about this hoss," went on the Bishop--"he's always spoony on mules. He ain't happy if he can't hang over the front gate spoonin' with every stray mule that comes along. There's old long-eared Lize that he's dead stuck on--if he c'u'd write he'd be composin' a sonnet to her ears, like poets do to their lady love's--callin' them Star Pointers of a Greater Hope, I reck'n, an' all that. Why, he'd ruther hold hands by moonlight with some old Maria mule than to set up by lamplight with a thoroughbred filly." "Great--great!" said Bud slapping his leg--"didn't I tell you so?" "So I named him Ben Butler when he was born. That was right after the war, an' I hated old Ben so an' loved hosses so, I thought ef I'd name my colt for old Ben maybe I'd learn to love him, in time."