Chapter 27: Ruined and Going Downhill
"There is three hundred pounds flung away for no earthly use," said he;
"but what I care most for is that these horses of my old friend,
who thought they would find a good home with me, are ruined.
The mare shall have a twelve-month's run, and we shall see
what that will do for her; but the black one, he must be sold;
'tis a great pity, but I could not have knees like these in my stables."
"No, my lord, of course not," said York; "but he might get
a place where appearance is not of much consequence,
and still be well treated. I know a man in Bath, the master
of some livery stables, who often wants a good horse at a low figure;
I know he looks well after his horses. The inquest cleared
the horse's character, and your lordship's recommendation, or mine,
would be sufficient warrant for him."
"You had better write to him, York. I should be more particular
about the place than the money he would fetch."
After this they left us.
"They'll soon take you away," said Ginger, "and I shall lose
the only friend I have, and most likely we shall never see each other again.
'Tis a hard world!"
About a week after this Robert came into the field with a halter,
which he slipped over my head, and led me away. There was no leave-taking
of Ginger; we neighed to each other as I was led off,
and she trotted anxiously along by the hedge, calling to me
as long as she could hear the sound of my feet.
Through the recommendation of York, I was bought by the master
of the livery stables. I had to go by train, which was new to me,
and required a good deal of courage the first time;
but as I found the puffing, rushing, whistling, and, more than all,
the trembling of the horse-box in which I stood did me no real harm,
I soon took it quietly.