“Oh, Tom, it’s the bread-cart horse! I’ve just bought him,” she answered, looking very pale and determined.
“What?” he exclaimed, gazing at her open-mouthed.
“Listen,” drawing him to one side. “He was sold for twenty-five shillings, and going to the Kennels.”
“His betters have gone the same road, poor old boy. I’m sorry.”
“I’m giving thirty shillings. I have it in my own private purse—egg money, you know.”
“Yes,” and he laughed, and nodded.
“And you, Tom—won’t you give him a run on the bog till winter—let him have his shoes off, and his chance? If he is still a cripple you can shoot him—if not you shall ride him; you said yourself he was the plan of a well-bred hunter.”
“All right, Sis, but if we are to buy and keep every old garron that passes the gate, we shall be in the poor-house sooner than ever.”
“Never mind, you love horses, and we’ve nothing but old Dolly and Sarah for the carts; the baker is a gentleman, and if he recovers, who knows but you may ride him to hounds!”
“Ha! ha! I think I see myself on that bag of bones!”