One Was A Tall, Robust Yankee, Hern In The Backwoods Of Maine, Sallow,
And With A Long Face; - The Other Was A Short Little Cockney, Who Had
First Clapped His Eyes On The Monument.
The voice of Zeke, the Yankee, had a twang like a cracked viol; and
Shorty (as his comrade called him), clipped the aspirate from every
word beginning with one.
The latter, though not the tallest man in
the world, was a good-looking young fellow of twenty-five. His cheeks
were dyed with the fine Saxon red, burned deeper from his roving
life: his blue eye opened well, and a profusion of fair hair curled
over a well-shaped head.
But Zeke was no beauty. A strong, ugly man, he was well adapted for
manual labour; and that was all. His eyes were made to see with, and
not for ogling. Compared with the Cockney, he was grave, and rather
taciturn; but there was a deal of good old humour bottled up in him,
after all. For the rest, he was frank, good-hearted, shrewd, and
resolute; and like Shorty, quite illiterate.
Though a curious conjunction, the pair got along together famously.
But, as no two men were ever united in any enterprise without one
getting the upper hand of the other, so in most matters Zeke had his
own way. Shorty, too, had imbibed from him a spirit of invincible
industry; and Heaven only knows what ideas of making a fortune on
their plantation.
We were much concerned at this; for the prospect of their setting us,
in their own persons, an example of downright hard labour, was
anything but agreeable.
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