He looked at the litter in the mustang's stall, then
at the crib.
"Ha'n't eat b't haalf his feed. Ha'n't been daown on his straw. Must ha'
been took aout somewhere abaout ten 'r 'levee o'clock. I know that 'ere
critter's ways. The fellah's had him aout nights afore; b't I never
thought nothin' o' no mischief. He 's a kin' o' haalf Injin. What is 't
the chap's been a-doin' on? Tell 's all abaout it."
Abel sat down on a meal-chest, picked up a straw and put it into his
mouth. Elbridge sat down at the other end, pulled out his jack-knife,
opened the penknife-blade, and began sticking it into the lid of the
meal-chest. The Doctor's man had a story to tell, and he meant to get
all the enjoyment out of it. So he told it with every luxury of
circumstance. Mr. Veneer's man heard it all with open mouth. No
listener in the gardens of Stamboul could have found more rapture in a
tale heard amidst the perfume of roses and the voices of birds and
tinkling of fountains than Elbridge in following Abel's narrative, as
they sat there in the aromatic ammoniacal atmosphere of the stable, the
grinding of the horses' jaws keeping evenly on through it all, with now
and then the interruption of a stamping hoof, and at intervals a ringing
crow from the barn-yard.
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