The Humour of America: Selected, with an Introduction and Index of American Humorists
General
The Humour of America: Selected, with an Introduction and Index of American Humorists
American wit and humor
the end of the rope, an’ the rodder pulled the ladder out while I held
the door to keep the dog from follerin’, which he came pretty near
doin’, anyway. But I locked him in, and then the man began stormin’
again about his waggon; but when he looked out an’ see the boy comin’
back with it—for somebody must ’a’ stopped the horse—he stopped stormin’
and went to put up his ladder ag’in. ‘No, you don’t,’ says I; ‘I’ll let
the big dog loose next time, and if I put him at the foot of your
ladder, you’ll never come down.’ ‘But I want to go and take down what I
put up,’ he says; ‘I ain’t a-goin’ on with this job.’ ‘No,’ says I, ‘you
ain’t; and you can’t go up there to wrench off them rods and make
rain-holes in the roof, neither.’ He couldn’t get no madder than he was
then, an’ fur a minute or two he couldn’t speak, an’ then he says, ‘I’ll
have satisfaction for this.’ An’ says I, ‘How?’ An’ says he, ‘You’ll see
what it is to interfere with a ordered job.’ An’ says I, ‘There wasn’t
no order about it;’ an’ says he, ‘I’ll show you better than that;’ an’
he goes to his waggon an’ gits a book, ‘There,’ says he, ‘read that.’
‘What of it?’ says I; ‘there’s nobody of the name of Ball lives here.’
That took the man kinder back, and he said he was told it was the only
house on the lane, which I said was right, only it was the next lane he
oughter ’a’ gone to. He said no more after that, but just put his ladder
in his waggon and went off. But I was not altogether rid of him. He left
a trail of his baleful presence behind him.
“That horrid bull-dog wouldn’t let me come into the house! No matter
what door I tried, there he was, just foamin’ mad. I let him stay till
nearly night, and then went and spoke kind to him; but it was no good.
He’d got an awful spite ag’in me. I found something to eat down cellar,
an’ I made a fire outside an’ roasted some corn and potatoes. That night
I slep’ in the barn. I wasn’t afraid to be away from the house, for I
knew it was safe enough, with that dog in it, and Lord Edward outside.
For three days, Sunday an’ all, I was kep’ out of this here house. I got
along pretty well with the sleepin’ and the eatin’, but the drinkin’ was
the worst. I couldn’t get no coffee or tea; but there was plenty of
milk.”
“Why didn’t you get some man to come and attend to the dog?” I asked.
“It was dreadful to live in that way.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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