“Quite well, Shingle,” rejoins the gloved, a stout red-faced sudoriferous yam-fed planter, dressed in blue-white jean trowsers and waistcoat, with long Hessian boots drawn up to his knee over the former, and a spannew square-skirted blue coatee, with lots of clear brass buttons: a broad brimmed black silk hat, worn white at the edge of the crown--wearing a very small neckcloth, above which shoots up an enormous shirt collar, the peaks of which might serve for winkers to a starting horse, and carrying a large whip in his hand--“Quite well, my dear fellow,” while he persists in dragging at it--the other homo all the while standing in the absurd position of a finger-post--at length off comes the glove--piecemeal perhaps--a finger first, for instance--then a thumb--at length they tackle to, and shake each other like the very devil--not a sober pump-handle shake, but a regular jiggery jiggery, as if they were trying to dislocate each other’s arms--and, confound them, even then they don’t let go--they cling like sucker fish, and talk and wallop about, and throw themselves back and laugh, and then another jiggery jiggery. On horseback, this custom is conspicuously ridiculous--I have nearly gone into fits at beholding two men careering along the road at a hand gallop each on a goodish horse, with his negro boy astern of him on a mule, in clean frock and trowsers, and smart glazed hat with broad gold band, with massa’s umbrella in a leathem case slung across his shoulders, and his portmanteau behind him on a mail pillion covered with a snow white sheep’s fleece--suddenly they pull up on recognising each other, when, tucking their whips under their arms, or crossing them in their teeth, it may be they commence the rugging and riving operation. In this case, Shingle’s bit of blood swerves, we may assume--Ratoon rides at him--Shingle fairly turns tail, and starts out at full speed, Ratoon thundering in his rear, with out-stretched arm; and it does happen, I am assured, that the hot pursuit often continues for a mile, before the desired clapperclaw is obtained. But when two lusty planters meet on horseback, then indeed Greek meets Greek. They, begin the interview by shouting to each other, while fifty yards off, pulling away at the gloves all the while--“How are you, Canetop?--glad to see you, Canetop. How do you do, I hope.”--“How are you, Yamfu, my dear fellow?” their horses fretting and jumping all the time--and if the Jack Spaniards or gadflies be rife, they have, even when denuded for the shake, to spur at each other, more like a Knight Templar and a Saracen charging in mortal combat, than two men merely struggling to be civil; an after all they have often to get their black servants alongside to hold their horses, for shake they must, were they to break their necks in the attempt. Why they won’t shake hands with their gloves on, I am sure I can’t tell. It would be much cooler and nicer--lots of Scotchmen in the community too.