‘He is worth thirty,’ replied Mr. Harkaway. ‘I am only selling him because I was obliged to buy two horses to carry on my business while he was away. He is worth thirty pounds.’
‘You mean twenty,’ said Benjamin Bunter shortly.
‘No—thirty, I mean.’
‘Twenty.’
In this style they haggled for awhile, and the bargain ended in the usual way; I became the property of Benjamin Bunter, greengrocer, for the sum of twenty-five pounds sterling.
In this manner I parted from the furniture dealer, and we never met again; but I learnt his fate in a casual way, and I may as well give it here. He was killed in a railway accident on his way back from a country sale, and having died without a will (he had put it off a hundred times on the ground of the expense), the better part of his property fell into the hands of his son, who justified his worldly training by squandering the money like dirt, and dying, while yet in his youth, mad with drink. What became of the mother I never knew.
Let me turn to my new master, Benjamin Bunter, and endeavour to describe him to my reading friends as I afterwards knew him. This master of mine was what is known as a ‘free living man’—he made a deal of money in his business, and spent it almost as soon as he got it. He was very fond of eating and drinking, and delighted in such pleasure as could be found on race-courses, at pigeon matches, and so on. His wife had precisely similar tastes, and they jogged on very well together; and the half-dozen children they had brought into the world were, as far as food and clothing went, well cared for, but all else was entirely neglected.
Let me speak of the man as I found him. Benjamin Bunter had a kind heart, and he fed me liberally; but he was a thoughtless man, and many a time he has, without the slightest regard for my good or ill, kept me all day without food at a pigeon match, and then taken up half a dozen men with him for ‘a lift’ home. He would also drive his wife and children to Epping for a day’s outing, and the exhaustion I have felt after the efforts required on such occasions was very great.
With regard to the pigeon-shooting I wish to say, without going into the subject, that I think it a very cruel and unmanly sport. The contest is not equal in any way. What can be more cowardly than to box up a poor helpless thing for awhile, then pretend to give it liberty and shoot it as soon as it shows its head? Call that ‘sport’—I wonder men are not ashamed of it!
I was employed in the business mostly, and very often I was in the Borough Market as early as four o’clock, and there I met with many horses and ponies engaged in the same trade; some were well cared for and fed liberally, but others had cruel or indifferent masters. Some of the men were given to bad language, and used the most fearful oaths whenever their animals did even the slightest thing wrong. Generally the fault lay with the masters, who perhaps had a little difficulty in fixing their carts among the rest, and instead of going quietly and easily to work, out came the whip, and the horse’s head was wrenched about, until he was quite bewildered. Who can wonder if the poor creature backed into the wrong place, or showed a tendency to go opposite to the direction required? Man talks a deal about reason, but he too often forgets to act upon it, especially when he is dealing with such poor creatures as myself.