"Ah! how do you do, Ratoon?" quoth the Kingston man.
"Quite well, Shingle," rejoins the gloved, a stout red--faced
sudoriferous yam--fed planter, dressed in blue--white jean trowsers and
waistcoat, with long Hessian boots drawn up to his knee over the former,
and a spannew square--skirted blue coatee, with lots of clear brass
buttons: a broad brimmed black silk hat, worn white at the edge of the
crown--wearing a very small neckcloth, above which shoots up an enormous
shirt collar, the peaks of which might serve for winkers to a starting
horse, and carrying a large whip in his hand--"Quite well, my dear
fellow," while he persists in dragging at it--the other homo all the
while standing in the absurd position of a finger--post--at length off
comes the glove--piecemeal perhaps--a finger first, for instance--then a
thumb--at length they tackle to, and shake each other like the very
devil--not a sober pump--handle shake, but a regular jiggery jiggery, as
if they were trying to dislocate each other's arms--and, confound them,
even then they don't let go--they cling like sucker fish, and talk and
wallop about, and throw themselves back and laugh, and then another
jiggery jiggery.
On horseback, this custom is conspicuously ridiculous--I have nearly
gone into fits at beholding two men careering along the road at a hand
gallop each on a goodish horse, with his negro boy astern of him on a
mule, in clean frock and trowsers, and smart glazed hat with broad gold
band, with massa's umbrella in a leathem case slung across his
shoulders, and his portmanteau behind him on a mail pillion covered with
a snow white sheep's fleece--suddenly they pull up on recognising each
other, when, tucking their whips under their arms, or crossing them in
their teeth, it may be they commence the rugging and riving operation.
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