Mr. Givens had given him his time. "Hit seems lak my gift is fur
machinery."

"A pusson which wuz keerful wouldn't trust you wid a shoe
buttoner--dat's how high I reguards yore gift fur machinery," commented
Bill Tilghman acidly. Red Hoss chose to ignore the slur. Anyhow, at the
moment he could put his tongue to no appropriate sentence of counter
repartee. He continued as though there had been no interruption:

"Yassuh, de nex' time you two pore ole foot-an'-mouth teamsters sees me
I'll come tearin' by yere settin' up on de boiler deck of a taxiscab.
You better step lively to git out of de way fur me den."

"I 'lows to do so," assented Bill. "I ain't aimin' to git shot wid no
stray bullets."

"How come stray bullets?"

"Anytime I sees you runnin' a taxiscab I'll know by dat sign alone dat
de sheriff an' de man which owns de taxiscab will be right behine
you--da's whut I means."

"Don't pay no 'tention to Unc' Bill," put in Tallow Dick. "Whar you aim
to git dis yere taxiscab, Red Hoss?"

"Mist' Lee Farrell he's done start up a regular taxiscab line,"
expounded Red Hoss. "He's lookin' fur some smart, spry cullid men ez
drivers. Dat natchelly bars you two out, but it lets me in. Mist' Lee
Farrell he teach you de trade fust, an' den he gives you three dollars a
day, an' you keeps all de tips you teks in. So it's so long and fare you
well to you mule lovers, 'ca'se Ise on my way to pick myse' out my
taxiscab."

"Be sure to pick yo'se'f out one which ain't been pampered," was Bill
Tilghman's parting shot.

"Nummine dat part," retorted Red Hoss. "You jes' remember dis after I'm
gone: Mules' niggers an' niggers' mules is 'bout to go out of style in
dis man's town."

In a way of speaking, Red Hoss in his final taunt had the rights of it.
Lumbering drays no longer runneled with their broad iron tires the
red-graveled flanks of the levee leading down to the wharf boats. They
had given way almost altogether to bulksome motor trucks. Closed hacks
still found places in funeral processions, but black chaser craft,
gasoline driven and snorting furiously, met all incoming trains and sped
to all outgoing ones. Betimes, beholding as it were the handwriting on
the wall, that enterprising liveryman, Mr. Lee Farrell, had set up a
garage and a service station on the site of his demolished stable, and
now was the fleet commander of a whole squadron of these tin-armored
destroyers.

Under his tutelage Red Hoss proved a reasonably