‘A horse murderer,’ replied Sara. ‘When a horse gets old and past work, this man is sent for, or we are taken to him. In either case it is his business to kill us, and he makes very short work of it. But we are useful to the end; they make shoes, glue, and all sorts of useful things out of our very carcases; and if man had any real love or gratitude in his composition, he would treat us all well when we are alive.’
‘But all masters are not cruel, Sam.’
‘No: many are very kind, and keep their stables in better condition than they do their cottages for the labouring poor; and some keep both horse and labourer well, but these are the exception, and not the rule. For my part, I do not care for a rich master; give me a quiet family of the middle class, living, let us say, at Finchley, Hampstead, or somewhere about eight miles the north of London; these are the people who feed and treat a horse well.’
‘Were you ever in such a family, Sam?’
‘No; but once I was almost bought by a gentleman of that class, but the chance went by, and I am now too old to hope for such a thing. I have, however, heard a deal of this life, and I am sure nothing could be more agreeable. Now you are a likely fellow to drop upon this sort of thing, if ever Harkaway makes up his mind to sell you.’
The picture drawn by Sam pleased me very much, and I earnestly hoped that such a lot might befall me.
So my life passed on. I dragged furniture about—now from a general sale, now at midnight from a fraudulent debtor’s house, and once from a ruined home, where the law had deprived the widow and fatherless of the comforts of life. Sometimes Mr. Harkaway beat me very cruelly; but he was generally sparing of the whip, as he had an idea that it knocked some of the value off a horse—as rubbing removes gilt from gingerbread; still he did not hesitate to overload me, and gave me such burdens to bear that I often felt I must die beneath them. Yet I kept on, supported by youth, I suppose, and endured this life for four long years.
During this time I had not forgotten my place of birth, or those connected with it. Of my mother I thought a great deal; but I had no anxiety on her account, as I had often heard Mr. Bayne declare that he intended to keep her all his life. Rip was very often in my mind, and a thousand times I wondered what had become of him, with a yearning such as one true friend feels for another. I loved Rip; he was so full of life, so spirited, so brilliant in action, that any one with an eye for beauty must have admired him. Ah, noble Rip! I did indeed love you, and wonder if the humble companion of your youth, pining in the dingy stable of a furniture dealer, ever entered your thoughts. Nor did I forget the beauty of the scene where I was born: the paddock, the stream, the old mill, and the rich surrounding foliage oft rose before me, and never faded away again without leaving behind an aching heart. Often and often I have, in fancy, smelt the sweet meadow flowers, and heard the melodious beating of Rip’s feet upon the soft turf, as he gaily pranced about the field; and such memories, if they have brought pain, have had a softening influence too, and I have lain down to sleep a sadder but a better horse.
The four years gave me a good knowledge of the great metropolis, as business at various times took me to every part of it; and the more I knew, the more I wondered at the magnitude of the place. I have learnt more since, and I have not ceased to wonder.
About this period a very terrible thing happened. I had been out all day with my master, and was back in the stable quite worn-out, thankful for the prospect of rest, when Jim, now a morose, sullen, dissipated young man, came into the stable, and without putting any harness upon me led me away. The act was so novel that my mind became full of vague terror, and the terrible knackers talked of by Sam arose before my eyes; but I dismissed the thought as a piece of folly—for I was yet active and full of work, and Mr. Harkaway was not the man to waste capital by useless slaughter—and looked about me for a more reasonable solution of the mystery.