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Updated: June 8, 2025
It wasn't until I looked over the well-gnawed top rail of Slip-Along's broken manger and saw that blessed boy there, by the light of Whinnie's lantern, saw that blessed boy of mine half buried in that soft and cushioning prairie-grass, saw that he was warm and breathing, and safe and sound, that I fully realized how he had been saved for me.
At least, so her ladyship informed me. But that's nae more than one of her lies, I'm thinkin'." "What did she say, Whinnie?" I demanded, doing my best to keep cool. "Naethin'," was Whinnie's grim retort. "'Twas me did the sayin'!" "What did you say?" I asked, disturbed by the none too gentle look on his face.
He fell back on a recent roup, and would not again break away, although sorely tempted by certain of Whinnie's speculations. When I saw him last, his coat-tails were waving victoriously as he leaped a dyke on his way to tell our Drumtochty Maecenas that the judges knew their business.
And Whinnie's explorations are surely worth emulating. I too have a machine inside me which some day I'll be compelled to rediscover. It is a machine which, at present, is merely a pump, though the ancients, I believe, regarded it as the seat of the emotions. Saturday the Twenty-ninth Dinky-Dunk is quite subtle.
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