il very recently, is a fact I leave to be explained on further
investigation. The word is an old one and a good one, but I fancy that
its use in England could not have been generally diffused in the
seventeenth century. So a Hoosier or a Kentuckian never _pared_ an
apple, but _peeled_ it. Much light might be thrown on the origin and
history of our dialects by investigating their deficiencies.]

CHAPTER XX.

GOD REMEMBERS SHOCKY.

At four o'clock the next morning, in the midst of a driving snow, Ralph
went timidly up the lane toward the homely castle of the Meanses. He
went timidly, for he was afraid of Bull. But he found Bud waiting for
him, with the roan colt bridled and saddled. The roan colt was really a
large three-year-old, full of the finest sort of animal life, and
having, as Bud declared, "a mighty sight of hoss sense fer his age." He
seemed to understand at once that there was something extraordinary on
hand when he was brought out of his comfortable quarters at four in the
morning in the midst of a snow-storm. Bud was sure that the roan colt
felt his responsibility.

In the days that followed, Ralph often had occasion to remember this
interview with Bud, who had risked much in bringing his fractured arm
out into the cold, damp air. Jonathan never clave to David more
earnestly than did Bud this December morning to Ralph.

"You see, Mr. Hartsook," said Bud, "I wish I was well myself. It's hard
to set still. But it's a-doing me a heap of good. I'm like a boy at
school. And I'm a-findin' out that doing one's best licks fer others
ain't all they is of it, though it's a good part. I feel like as if I
must git Him, you know, to do lots for me. They's always some sums too
hard fer a feller, and he has to ax the master to do 'em, you know. But
see, the roan's a-stomping round. He wants to be off. Do you know I
think that hoss knows something's up? I think he puts in his best licks
fer me a good deal better than I do fer Him."

Ralph pressed Bud's right hand. Bud rubbed his face against the colt's
nose and said: "Put in your best licks, old fellow." And the colt
whinnied. How a horse must want to speak! For Bud was right. Men are
gods to horses, and they serve their deities with a faithfulness that
shames us.

Then Ralph sprang into the saddle, and the roan, as if wishing to show
Bud his willingness, broke into a swinging gallop, and was soon lost to
the sight of his master in the darkness and the snow.