"Yes; besides his regular feed and Patrick's wages as hostler, I have
on hand unpaid bills to the amount of two thousand dollars on his
account."

"Two thousand! Why, Emma, you amaze me! What on earth does it mean?"

"I'll tell you the whole story, love. Just after you left he took a
severe cold, and he coughed incessantly. You could hear him cough for
miles. All the neighbors complained of it, and Mr. Potts, next door,
was so mad that he shot at the horse four times. Patrick said it was
whooping-cough."

"Whooping-cough, darling! Impossible! A horse _never_ has
whooping-cough."

"Well, Patrick said so. And as I always give paregoric to the children
when they cough, I concluded that it would be good for the horse, so I
bought a bucketful and gave it to him with sugar."

"A bucketful of paregoric, my love! It was enough to kill him."

"Patrick said that was a regular dose for a horse of sedentary habits;
and it didn't kill him: it put him to sleep. You will be surprised,
dear, to learn that the horse slept straight ahead for four weeks.
Never woke up once. I was frightened about it, but Patrick told me
that it was a sign of a good horse. He said that Dexter often slept
six months on a stretch, and that once they took Goldsmith Maid to
a race while she was sound asleep and she trotted a mile in 2:15, I
think he said, without getting awake."