But we must return to the stable to which Peace and Willie Ward had betaken themselves. The former was much concerned at beholding the pony rear on its hind legs as if in pain; then the faithful animal dropped on all fours again and looked inquiringly at his master.
In a minute or so after this a sudden shivering seemed to seize the pony, who trembled in every limb, at the same time snorting like a war charger.
“Poor little fellow! he is bad,” cried Willie, in a tone of alarm. “I never saw him like this before. What can be the matter with him?”
“That’s not easy to say. He’s dreadfully bad at present, but he’ll get better after a bit.”
“I hope so.”
“Oh! he’ll get better.”
Peace, despite the symptoms, which were of a serious character, was still sanguine.
He strove to put the best face on the matter, and proceeded at once to prepare a bran mash.
In this he was assisted by his step-son. “Tommy” was the most docile, tractable little animal it was well possible to conceive, and took his mash without hesitation.
“Will that do him good?” said the lad.