"I say, Bill," he called out, walking to the stable; "got any oats in here?"
"Oh, a few. I keep some for thoroughbreds, you know." And he walked after Ike into the stable.
Ike began talking rapidly and in a low tone. As Bill listened he became unusually excited. "Eh! What! No. Say, that's bad, too blank bad! His mother, eh? My team? Certainly. There they are, fit for a good dozen an hour. Put 'em right in."
In ten minutes Bill's team, the pride of his heart, were hitched to the buckboard.
"All right, Bill," said Ike, taking the reins.
"All right, Ike," replied Bill. "Their skin don't say much, but they can talk with their feet a few. Let 'em go. They won't run away."
The performance of Bill's bony, shaggy team more than justified their owner's promise. They did "talk with their feet," and to such good purpose that in less than two hours Shock stood at the door of his Convener's house, his mind bewildered, his senses numbed from the terrible strain through which he had passed.
"Come in, my dear fellow," said the Convener, who had evidently been expecting him, "come right in."
But Shock stood at the door. "Is there any word?" he enquired, with a voice void of all emotion.
"Nothing further."