When he stuck the end of the rail under the Cap'n's nose the Cap'n
pushed it away with mud-smeared hands.

"I don't, myself, nuss grudges in times of distress, Cap Sproul,"
shouted Todd. "You kicked me. I know that. But you was in the wrong,
and you got the wu'st of it. Proverdunce has allus settled my grudges
for me in jest that way. I forgive and pass on, but Proverdunce don't.
Take that fence-rail. It sha'n't ever be said by man that Marengo
Todd nussed a grudge."

When the Cap'n was once more on solid ground, Todd, still iterating
his forgiveness of past injuries, picked up a tin pie-plate that had
been jarred out of the van among other litter, and began to scrape
the black mud off the foreman of the Ancients in as matter-of-fact
a way as though he were currycombing a horse.

The spirit of the doughty mariner seemed broken at last. He looked
down at himself, at the mud-clogged buckets and his unspeakable
bedragglement.

"I've only got one word to say to you right here and now, Cap'n,"
went on Todd, meekly, "and it's this, that no man ever gits jest where
he wants to git, unless he has a ree-li'ble hoss. I've tried to tell
you so before, but--but, well, you didn't listen to me the way you
ought to." He continued to scrape, and the Cap'n stared mutely down
at the foot that was encased in a muddy slipper.

"Now, there's a hoss standin' there--" pursued Todd.