“I dare say not, but in my case there was no help for it.”
“I don’t deny that. I aint a blamin’ you. Should have done the same thing myself under similar circumstances, but that doesn’t alter matters as far as he is concerned. I’m afraid he’s done for.”
“Done for! You surely don’t mean that?”
“Ye see,” said Mr. Rawton, in an oracular manner, “I’ve had to do with ’osses ever since I was a youngster—a mere kid in a manner of speaking—and can therefore judge pretty well about this ’ere animal. He’s got a fever, he’s dull and heavy, his head hangs down, there’s a chilliness about him, a staring coat, coldness on the surface and at the extremities, and every now and then a shivering fit. These are the first symptoms of what we call symptomatic fever.”
“Well, but can’t you do something for him?” cried Peace.
“I’ll do all I can—that you may rest assured of, but I can’t promise you to effect a cure. I may, it is true, but I’m doubtful. He’s been overdriven, that is one thing against him, but no doubt the disease would have come on whether he had been overdriven or not.”
Bill Rawton went out at once and purchased at the nearest chemist’s some drugs, which he made up into laxative balls, two of which he gave to the pony. After this he took a small quantity of blood from his patient, which seemed to afford great relief.
“Oh, you’ll pull him through,” cried Peace.
The gipsy shook his head.
“I’m afraid of it, Charlie,” said he. “It’s no manner of use attempting to buoy oneself up by false hopes. I am afraid you must make up your mind to lose the faithful little creature who’s done his best for you, and has paid the penalty.”