He
was a portly, splendid looking man. He appeared, to me, to be a good,
hale, healthy, honest farmer, well kept and one who enjoyed life. He
would sell his property if he got his price, not otherwise. He was rather
austere and independent about it. He asked me my name and where I was
from. (This is a trait of eastern men, down near Connecticut, to ask a
man his name and where he lives and, sometimes, where he is going.) I saw
that uncle was getting me in rather close quarters, but I talked away as
fast as possible, walking around and looking at the cattle. I asked him
what he would take for them, by the lump, I was trying to evade the
questions, that he had asked me.
I told him that my home was wherever I happened to be, that I paid the
cash for every thing which I bought, that I had just come from Illinois,
where I had relatives, and down through Michigan. I told him that I was
very well acquainted in some parts of Michigan, that I had been in Canada
and that a great many people there called me a "Kentuckian;" and I didn't
know as it mattered what I was called so long as I was able to pay him
for his cattle.
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