"As usual," he said, with an underhung sneer-"bowin' your heads
before the Oppressor that comes to spend his leisure gloatin'
over you."

"Mine's done," said the Deacon; he licked up the remnant of his
salt, dropped his nose in his master's hand, and sang a little
grace all to himself. The Deacon has the most enchanting
manners of any one I know.

"An' fawnin' on them for what is your inalienable right. It's
humiliatin'," said the yellow horse, sniffing to see if he could
find a few spare grains.

"Go daown hill, then, Boney," the Deacon replied. "Guess you'll
find somethin' to eat still, if yer hain't hogged it all. You've
ett more'n any three of us to-day - an' day 'fore that - an' the
last two months - sence you've been here."

"I am not addressin' myself to the young an' immature. I am
speakin' to those whose opinion an' experience commands
respect."

I saw Rod raise his head as though he were about to make a
remark; then he dropped it again, and stood three-cornered, like
a plough-horse. Rod can cover his mile in a shade under three
minutes on an ordinary road to an ordinary buggy. He is
tremendously powerful behind, but, like most Hambletonians, he
grows a trifle sullen as he gets older. No one can love Rod
very much; but no one can help respecting him.