§ 117 A Chronic Loser
At Lynchburg, Va., a traveling-man climbed off the train in a hurry. He had but a few minutes in which to travel across town and make connections with a train for Roanoke. But the only rig in sight was an ancient carriage drawn by a scrawny, old crow-bait with an old negro man for a driver.
“Right this way, boss,” shouted the old man as he ran forward to relieve the traveler of his hand-baggage. “Tek you anywhars in the city fur fifty cents. Hop right abode, suh!”
“I’ve got to rush over to the other depot,” said the white man, “That mare of yours doesn’t look very fast. Do you think she can make it?”
“Huh, dat mare?” proclaimed the old man. “She sholy kin. She’s mouty deceivin’ in her looks. They calls dis hoss Lightnin’.”
Thus reassured, the stranger climbed in. The black Jehu mounted to his seat, snapped the lines and gave the word of command. Tottering on her shaky pins the venerable pack of bones ambled off.
“Say, look here, uncle,” said the fare, “that nag of yours may be speedy when she’s feeling right but it strikes me that she’s lost her health or something. Why, she’s almost weak enough to fall down in her tracks.”
“Boss,” said the old man, sinking his voice to a confidential undertone, “I’m gwine tell you a secret. Dat mare ain’t sick, but yere lately, as you mout say, she’s been kind of out o’ luck.”
“What do you mean—out of luck?” asked the passenger.
“Well, suh, ever’ mawnin’ I shakes the dice to see whether dat mare has a bait of oats or I has me a slug of gin. An’ she ain’t won fur goin’ on mouty nigh a week.”