“I returned to the home of my aunts in Boston. They had become quite wealthy from their land holdings. Our family relations were rather strained. My aunts took sides with my brother and sister against me and they sent me to an impoverished tract of six acres on the outskirts of Boston. I spent a couple of years trying to nurse some vegetables out of the stony soil and then my aunts both died very suddenly. After the funeral, I was called to town to hear the reading of the will.
    My brother and sister were both present. Each one wore the regulation costumes prescribed by the best regulated families and they carried their act out to the letter. It would have made a professional Irish banshee jealous to see the crocodile tears they shed on that old, bewhiskered shister of a barrister. The barrister read the will in a grave, sepulchral voice. Way at the bottom of the will was found the name of Anthony Doyle, son of so and so, one brindle male calf and a six acre tract, describing its location. The calf was farmed out at so and so’s farm.
    Well, after some more anguish and weeping, by my brother and sister, I started to get my calf. When I reached the farm, I found that there was a bill of eight dollars against the animal for its upkeep. The farmer claimed that the animal was eleven years old and I had figured that he was a calf. I lacked sixty cents of having the eight dollars but the farmer good heartedly told me to go on. I guess that he was glad to get rid of the animal as he and his family were in high spirits, when I walked out of the yard, leading my new found wealth. In my dull mind, I thought this show of merriment on their part was queer but I was soon to find out why.
    The day was extremely hot and the distance to my six acres was four miles. The first two miles, the animal managed to stumble along and then he wabbled and fell. I noticed as he lay there that the hoof points were unusually long, which forced him to walk on his heels. His feet were badly in need of a manicure.”
    At this point, the Texan interrupted, “If you were figuring on entering him in the races, you would need no toe weights.” Young as we boys were, we understood the dressing of a race horse’s hoof, but an ox was different.