"That's Ned Roberts, Bandershanks. I don't reckon you know
him. He lives over across the creek on Mister Ward Lawson's
place. Or I should say the old Crawford home-place. Ward's just
renting it. And that's not a little mule Ned's riding. That's a
jack, a donkey. Some folks would call it a 'jackass.' But you
don't say that, Bandershanks. It don't sound pretty."
"Ooh, Papa, look how fat that dog is!"
We watched Ned and his donkey and the bulged-out dog come on
up the slope. It took them a long time. They stopped at the edge
of the porch, where Ned tied the fuzzy, slow-walking donkey to
one corner of Jake's hitching rail, but he was careful not to let
the donkey stand close to Jake. A good thing, Papa said, for Jake
could, and would, kick him.
"I see Ned aims to buy coal oil."
"How come he's got that old wrinkled Irish 'tater sticking on
the spout of his can, Papa?"
"To keep his oil from sloshing out when he starts home."
The dog clambered up the steps behind Ned and followed him
inside. As soon as she could spread herself out in the middle of
the floor, she took a long, deep breath and closed her eyes.
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