‘A sad accident happened to this Rip,’ continued my informant; ‘a careless groom drove him against another carriage, and a splinter entering his leg, he was lamed for life.’
‘And what has become of him?’ I asked softly, my thoughts running upon knives and guns in an instant.
‘The family with whom he lives are very kind to horses,’ was the reply—‘especially the elder branches. Rip has served them well, I believe, and they have rewarded him by making arrangements for him to end his days in the paddock where he lived when young. His leg will never be of any real service again, but it has ceased to pain him, and he limps about as happy and contented as a horse can be.’
Oh, Rip, my friend, this is good news of you. Long may you live to enjoy your well-earned rest and ease! There was a choking feeling in my throat as I thought of our different lots, but I hope it was not the result of envy. Envy is as bad in a horse as it is in a man.
‘Did he ever speak of a horse named Blossom?’ I ventured to ask softly, after a pause.
‘Very often,’ replied my companion—‘wondering what had become of him—and always in terms of the greatest compassion. I fancy that Blossom is rather an unfortunate horse. Do you know him?’
I did not answer, for my heart was full, and my brain was busy with thinking of my dear old friend, high-spirited noble Rip—and generous too, for he could think of me—poor, simple, vulgar Blossom. I felt very sorry for having neighed so loudly when I met him on the race-course; but he forgave me, and what more could I want?
I ought to have been sleeping that afternoon; but the news concerning Rip drove all thoughts of rest from my brain, and I had not closed my eyes when the ostler came in to harness me for my nightly work.
