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Nobody but a Methodist Elder could do it. I've sold a better hoss than that for $80, and got all he was worth." He stood for a few minutes and looked at the grand display until the Union batteries, satisfied that they had finally quashed the impudent rebel, ceased firing, and then he looked around. "Well, that buckboard's done for. I can't take it back. It's only good for kindlin' wood now.
"We're splitting the air all right," shouted the old man. "Ye mind y' talked of sawing air. Split it, man, an' y'll get somewhere." Up a hummock, down a ravine, over a fallen log with a hurdle jump that threatened to break the buckboard's back. "Are ye there yet?" called the old man.
From that moment Old Jerry's defection from the ranks must be dated, for it was in those bitter hours which followed the yellow-wheeled buckboard's early morning flight down the main street that the old man woke to the fact that his admiration for the Judge was made of anything but immortal stuff.
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