‘I do,’ I replied; ‘do you know the place?’
‘I ought to,’ replied the other; ‘for I have only just left it, and a bad leave it is for me, I fear. I was reared on Mr. Bayne’s farm, and a kinder master never lived.’
I could barely speak for the tumultuous throbbing of my heart, but I managed to stammer out, ‘Tell me all you know; is Mr. Bayne alive?’ And then I asked for my mother, and the stranger told me what I expected to hear, that she had lived to a good old age, and had died a year ago.
THE TALK IN THE STABLE.
‘And Mr. Bayne?’ I asked again.
‘He is getting into years, but hale and hearty still,’ replied my informant. ‘But just before I came away a sad accident happened to a farmer named Martin. Boxer was his horse, who used to bring him home from market when he had been drinking; but Boxer was getting old and blind, I suppose, and walked out of the road into the mill-pond. Be it as it may, Mr. Martin and Boxer were found drowned together.’
I expressed my sorrow for both master and horse, and then with a palpitating heart I inquired after my old friend Rip.
‘Rip, Rip, let me see,’ said my companion, thoughtfully; ‘an old horse belonging to the Tracey family, is it not?’
It seemed so odd to hear any one speaking of Rip as an old horse: but time had flown since we met, and he, like me, was past his prime. But he could not be so worn-out as I was—his lot had fallen upon smoother places than mine; still he was old, there was no disputing that.