Inspired by this passionate appeal, the hunter hastened towards the stable, where he had stalled his unique specimen of horseflesh.
He found the “critter” sonorously shelling some corn-cobs, which Pluto had placed liberally before her.
Pluto himself was standing by her side.
Contrary to his usual habit, the sable groom was silent: though with an air anything but tranquil. He looked rather triste than excited.
It might be easily explained. The loss of his young master—by Pluto much beloved—the sorrow of his young mistress, equally estimated—perhaps some scornful speeches which he had lately been treated to from the lips of Morinda—and still more likely a kick he had received from the boot-toe of Captain Cassius—for several days assuming sole mastery over the mansion—amply accounted for the unquiet expression observable on his countenance.
Zeb was too much occupied with his own thoughts to notice the sorrowful mien of the domestic. He was even in too great a hurry to let the old mare finish her meal of maize, which she stood greatly in need of.
Grasping her by the snout, he stuck the rusty snaffle between her teeth; pulled her long ears through the cracked leathern headstraps; and, turning her in the stall, was about to lead her out.
It was a reluctant movement on the part of the mare—to be dragged away from such provender as she rarely chanced to get between her jaws.
She did not turn without a struggle; and Zeb was obliged to pull vigorously on the bridle-rein before he could detach her muzzle from the manger.
“Ho! ho! Mass’ Tump!” interposed Pluto. “Why you be go ’way in dat big hurry? De poor ole ma’ she no half got u’m feed. Why you no let her fill her belly wif de corn? Ha! ha! It do her power o’ good.”