master's saddle-bags, and all bloody from a pistol-shot, that had gone
clean through and through the poor animal's chest without quite killing
him; when he heard all this, he turned as pale as if the missing man had
been his own dear brother or father, and shivered and shook all over as if
he had had a fit of the ague.

At first he was too much overpowered with grief to be able to do any thing
at all, or to concert upon any plan of action; so that for a long time he
endeavored to dissuade Mr. Shuttleworthy's other friends from making a
stir about the matter, thinking it best to wait awhile -- say for a week
or two, or a month, or two -- to see if something wouldn't turn up, or if
Mr. Shuttleworthy wouldn't come in the natural way, and explain his
reasons for sending his horse on before. I dare say you have often
observed this disposition to temporize, or to procrastinate, in people who
are labouring under any very poignant sorrow. Their powers of mind seem to
be rendered torpid, so that they have a horror of any thing like action,
and like nothing in the world so well as to lie quietly in bed and "nurse
their grief," as the old ladies express it -- that is to say, ruminate
over the trouble.

The people of Rattleborough had, indeed, so high an opinion of the wisdom
and discretion of "Old Charley," that the greater part of them felt
disposed to agree with him, and not make a stir in the business "until
something should turn up," as the honest old gentleman worded it; and I
believe that, after all this would have been the general determination,
but for the very suspicious interference of Mr. Shuttleworthy's nephew, a
young man of very dissipated habits, and otherwise of rather bad
character. This nephew, whose name was Pennifeather, would listen to
nothing like reason in the matter of "lying quiet," but insisted upon
making immediate search for the "corpse of the murdered man. -- This was