down, made observations, and told the story and pedigree of each of the horses.
It was apparently somewhat of a bore to the guest to listen to the master; but he devised questions, to make it seem as if he were interested in it.
“Yes, yes,” said he in some confusion.
“Look,” said the host, not replying to the questions, “look at those legs, look at the … She cost me dear, but I shall have a three-year-old from her that’ll go!”
“Does she trot well?” asked the guest.
Thus they scrutinized almost all the horses, and there was nothing more to show. And they were silent.
“Well, shall we go?”
“Yes, let us go.”
They went out through the gate. The guest was glad that the exhibition was over, and that he was going home where he would eat, drink, smoke, and have a good time. As they went by Nester, who was sitting on the piebald and waiting for further orders, the guest struck his big fat hand on the horse’s side.
“Here’s good blood,” said he. “He’s like the piebald horse, if you remember, that I told you about.”
The master perceived that it was not of his horses that the guest was speaking; and he did not listen, but, looking around, continued to gaze at his stud.
Suddenly, at his very ear, was heard a dull, weak, senile neigh. It was the piebald horse that began to neigh, but could not finish it. Becoming, as it