"Hello, Gilbert! is that you? Well, I’d never know’d you," he exclaimed. "I’m glad to see you out agin, though, for ’ceptin’ for you I’d not be curryin’ horses now." "Not this mare, anyway," I answered, stroking her fine face and looking into her mild responsive eyes. "No; an’ she’s a good one if I’m a judge, an’ fit to ride for one’s life." "So is every horse, Blott," I answered, rubbing my face against hers. "They’ll all do the best they can." "All horses is good, Gilbert, if not broken by fools or the like," Blott answered, striking his currycomb against a post, and making the dust fly; "an’ I never hired an old, broken-down livery plug in my life that I didn’t want to buy it afterward, if ’twas gentle an’ tried to please, which they mostly does." "That’s so; but how are you getting on? As good as new and better, if your looks show," I answered, remarking his fine color and clear eyes. "Yes; the bullet went through me as clean as a whistle, an’ if the ashes of the old cabin was scraped away you’d find it there sure. Then I’m livin’ a decent kind of life, too. The malary’s a thing you don’t want, though, Gilbert. It’s like the bots, an’ if you ever git it be careful of the medicine, for it’s worse’n the disease. It makes one careless-like; kindy as if you was coastin’ on a big bob. I used to see lots of signs as I shot down the hill, that said as plain as words, ’Hell’s at the bottom, Blott’; but I kept on, not carin’. When I’d reached the bottom, Burke’s shot tipped me over, an’ though I rolled within a foot of the openin’ I didn’t go in, an’ ever since I’ve bin tryin’ to crawl back agin to the top. It’s slow work, though, both my tendons bein’ bowed an’ my wind not much to speak of. I’m not such a fool after all, though, as I look," he went on in his droll way. "For it’s a wise chicken that knows enough to stay near the barn, but after the hawks git most of their feathers they learn better’n to wander too far." "Well, the hawks haven’t picked your bones," I answered, scanning his great frame. "No; an’ I can’t think how it all happened, for I wasn’t wild when a boy. I was tied up too tight, I guess. You’ve got to leave some slack in a boy’s galluses, Gilbert, if you want to keep the buttons on his pants. Don’t forget that when you’re grown, if you don’t want to raise a lot of wrecks." "Yes; but good by. Take good care of the mare," I answered, stroking her nose as we walked away. "You bet your last plunk, an’ for what she’s done for me, if nothin’ else."