"I did so--fust-off."

"A madman who imagined himself a horse?"

"That's what I done," said Mr. Dodge contritely, "an' no wonder, with
that there saddle. They're a very queer lot, them crazy chaps. There's
one on 'em up there who calls himself Abraham Lincoln, an' then there's
another who thinks he's a telegraph wire an' hes messages runnin' up an'
down him continally. These is new potatoes, sir--early rosers. There's
no end to their cussed kinks. When I see you prancin' round under the
winder with that there saddle, I says at once to Martha, 'Martha, here's
a luny!'"

"A very natural conclusion," said Lynde meekly.

"Wasn't it now?"

"And if you had shot me to death," said Lynde, helping himself to
another chop, "I should have been very much obliged to you."

Mr. Dodge eyed the young man dubiously for a dozen seconds or so.

"Comin'! comin'!" cried Mr. Dodge, in response to a seemingly vociferous
call which had failed to reach Lynde's ear.

When Edward Lynde had finished dinner, Mary was brought to the door.
Under the supervision of a group of spectators assembled on the piazza,
Lynde mounted, and turned the mare's head directly for Rivermouth. He
had no heart to go any farther due north. The joyousness had dropped out