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"Haven't you got my number, yet, Cholly haven't you?" "What is it, little one, number scared-cat?" She flung him a glance over the hump of one shoulder. Nineteen summers had breezed lightly over her, and her lips were cherry-like, but tilted slightly as if their fruit had been plucked from the tree of sophistication. "You bet your life I'm scared."
"In heaven's name, what if it does? Say, young woman, do you think I am one of these cholly boys?" "No, Billie; but then, you know " "Well, if you don't take me for some kind of a Willie, give us peace on this blasted glove business!" "I didn't mean " "Well, you've been intimating that I've got the only pair of gray gloves in the universe, but you are wrong.
This pony is Captain. Who is your Uncle?" "Why, my uncle is Charles W. Hampton," sez the tourist. "You don't say!" sez Bill. "Well, Cholly knows who Captain is all right." "Oh, do you know him?" sez the tourist. "Why, everybody knows him around here," sez Bill. "That's funny; they told me he lived over a hundred and forty miles from here," sez the tourist.
"I know Mars John bin drivin' Cholly sorter hard ter-day, en I say ter myse'f dat I'd drap 'round 'bout dus' en fling nudder year er corn in de troff en kinder gin 'im a techin' up wid de kurrier-koam; en bless grashus! I ain't bin in de lot mo'n a minnit 'fo' I seed sump'n wuz wrong wid de hoss, and sho' nuff dar wuz his mane full er witch-stirrups." "Full of what, Uncle Remus?"
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