Finally he got to his feet and started plodding dejectedly down the road. It was a long desolate walk. Each step seemed to take him farther from Ticktock. His parents saw him when he finally came forlornly up the lane. With his slow pace and sorrowful face, he was a heartbreaking sight.
“What’s the matter, Jimmy?” asked his mother, running to meet him.
“Someone stole Ticktock,” he said with a quavering voice.
“Stole Ticktock?” asked Mr. Meadows incredulously. “How did it happen?”
“I saw a man jump off a freight,” said Jim slowly. “I thought maybe he was hurt. While I was hunting for him, he stole Ticktock. He must have been hiding behind some bush.”
“Why the dirty rat,” said Mr. Meadows, his rage mounting as he listened to the details. While he had threatened to get rid of the horse a few months earlier, now the idea that anyone would steal his son’s mustang made him furious. “I’m going in to call the sheriff. That horse is so well known the thief won’t be able to get far. We’ll get Ticktock back, Jim.”
Two days went by, and they didn’t get Ticktock back.
The sheriff passed the alarm to surrounding towns, while the Springdale Gazette carried big headlines warning everyone to be on the lookout. It forgot its usual joking tone about Jim and his horse and seriously asked everyone to cooperate in the search. Bill Arnold even had a front-page editorial on the subject.
Jim sat at the telephone waiting for news, but there was no joyous message. He was grief-stricken and refused to be consoled.
“Don’t feel so bad,” said Mrs. Meadows comfortingly. “You have money enough to buy another horse.”