“Worse than that! Then he has been stolen by some judge of valuable horses. Oh, what a fool I was to intrust him to anybody!” exclaimed my father, with well-feigned sorrow.
“No, he ain’t stolen, Uncle Phile,” said Nelson.
“Not stolen! Well, I am glad of that, for I shall recover him again; but where is he? I am afraid you have lamed him.”
“Worse than that,” drawled the unfortunate Nelson.
“Well, what is the matter? where is he? what ails him?” asked my father.
“Oh, I can’t tell you,—I can’t tell you!” said Beers with a groan.
“But you must tell me,” returned my father.
“It will break your heart,” groaned Beers.
“To be sure it will if he is seriously injured,” replied my father; “but where is he?”
“He is dead!” said Beers, as he nerved himself up for the announcement, and then, closing his eyes, sank into a chair completely overcome with fright.