"Glad to hear it," said I; "he needs it sadly."
"Yes; going to feed him up and then sell him to somebody, and double my money on him, you see. You may ride him on the march and carry our traps. I guess the colonel will give you permission. And, you know, that would be a capital arrangement for you, for you are so sick and weak that you are often left behind on the march."
"Thank you, old boy," said I with a shrug. "You always were a good, kind, thoughtful soul; but if the choice must be between joining the general cavalcade of coffee-coolers on this old barebones of yours and marching afoot, I believe I'd prefer the infantry."
However, we tied a rope around the neck of Bonaparte, as we significantly called him, fastened him up to a stake, rubbed him down, begged some oats of Page, and pulled some handfuls of young grass for him, and so left him for the night.
I do not think Andy slept well that night. How could he after so bold a dash into the horse-market? Grotesque images of the wooden horse of ancient Troy, and of Don Quixote on his celebrated Rosinante charging the windmills, were no doubt hopelessly mixed up in his dreams with wild vagaries of General Grant at the head of Mosby's men fiercely trying to force a passage across Jericho Ford. For daylight had scarcely begun to peep into the forest the next morning, when Andy rolled out from under the blankets and went to look after Bonaparte. I was building a fire when he came back. It seemed to me that he looked a little solemn.
"How's Bony this morning, Andy?" inquired I.
Andy whistled a bit, stuck his hands into his pockets, mounted a log, took off his cap, made a bow, and said:
"Comrades and fellow-citizens, lend me your ears, and be silent that you may hear! This is my first and last speculation in horseflesh. Bony is gone!"
It was indeed true. We had fallen among thieves, and they had even baffled Andy's plan for future money-making; for none of us ever laid eyes on Bony again.