" It was the Old Cattleman addressing his
black satellite. "Stampede up to their rooms of mine an' fetch me my
hat; the one with the snakeskin band. My head ain't feelin' none too
well, owin' to the barkeep of this hostelry changin' my drinks, an'
that rattlesnake band oughter absorb them aches an' clar'fy my
roominations a heap. Now, vamos!" he continued, as Tom seemed to
hesitate, "the big Stetson with the snakeskin onto it.
"An' how be you stackin' up yours'ef?" observed the old gentleman,
turning to me as his dark agent vanished in quest of head-bear.
"Which you shorely looks as worn an' weary as a calf jest branded.
It'll do you good to walk a lot; better come with me. I sort o'
orig'nates the notion that I'll go swarmin' about permiscus this
mornin' for a hour or so, an cirk'late my blood, an' you-all is
welcome to attach yourse'f to the scheme. Thar's nothin' like
exercise, that a-way, as Grief Mudlow allows when he urges his wife
to take in washin'. You've done heard of Grief Mudlow, the laziest
maverick in Tennessee?"
I gave my word that not so much as a rumor of the person Mudlow had
reached me. My friend expressed surprise. It was now that the black
boy Tom came up with the desired hat.
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