Abel did not forget his message with reference to the equipments of the dead mustang.

“The’ was some things on the hoss, Squire, that the man he ketched said he didn’ care no gre’t abaout; but perhaps you’d like to have ’em fetched to the mansion-haouse.  Ef y’ didn’ care abaout ’em, though, I shouldn’ min’ keepin’ on ’em; they might come handy some time or ‘nother:  they say, holt on t’ anything for ten year ‘n’ there’ll be some kin’ o’ use for’t.”

“Keep everything,” said Dudley Venner.  “I don’t want to see anything belonging to that young man.”

So Abel nodded to Mr. Venner, and left the study to find some of the men about the stable to tell and talk over with them the events of the last evening.  He presently came upon Elbridge, chief of the equine department, and driver of the family-coach.

“Good mornin’, Abe,” said Elbridge.  “What’s fetched y’ daown here so all-fired airly?”

“You’re a darned pooty lot daown here, you be!” Abel answered.  “Better keep your Portagees t’ home nex’ time, ketchin’ folks ’ith slippernooses raoun’ their necks, ‘n’ kerryin’ knives ’n their boots!”

“What ‘r’ you jawin’ abaout?” Elbridge said, looking up to see if he was in earnest, and what he meant.

“Jawin’ abaout?  You’ll find aout ’z soon ‘z y’ go into that ’ere stable o’ yourn!  Y’ won’t curry that ’ere long-tailed black hoss no more; ‘n’ y’ won’t set y’r eyes on the fellah that rid him, ag’in, in a hurry!”

Elbridge walked straight to the stable, without saying a word, found the door unlocked, and went in.

“Th’ critter’s gone, sure enough!” he said.  “Glad on’t!  The darndest, kickin’est, bitin’est beast th’t ever I see, ‘r ever wan’ t’ see ag’in!  Good reddance!  Don’ wan’ no snappin’-turkles in my stable!  Whar’s the man gone th’t brought the critter?”

“Whar he’s gone?  Guess y’ better go ‘n aaesk my ol’ man; he kerried him off laaes’ night; ‘n’ when he comes back, mebbe he’ll tell ye whar he’s gone tew!”

By this time Elbridge had found out that Abel was in earnest, and had something to tell.  He looked at the litter in the mustang’s stall, then at the crib.

“Ha’n’t eat b’t haaelf his feed.  Ha’n’t been daown on his straw.  Must ha’ been took aout somewhere abaout ten ’r ’leven 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’ haaelf 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 jackknife, 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. Venner’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 barnyard.