Thunderbolt put back his ears. “That is what I said,” he went on, “and I’m not going to turn a hair over it, either. A change of monogram can happen to anybody.”
“Of course,” said I, taking particular pains to show mine. It was on my best dress-blanket, which Peter was putting on, and which was made to order for me in Missy’s father’s woolen mills. “But how did it happen that you—eh——”
Thunderbolt’s eyes showed a rim of white—a bad-temper sign that no thoroughbred (and no part thoroughbred) allows himself to make. “‘You’re as silly as a filly,’” he quoted. “A horse may just be off his oats a little—that was my case—or home-sick.”
“I can understand that.”
“Any crow-bait could. But now that I’m here——”
“Lucky nag!” said I.
“Bet your bridle!” returned Thunderbolt. “My master comes in with his pockets fairly sticking out with good things. Have you noticed?”
“No, but I will,” I promised.
And I did. The very next morning, here came Thunderbolt’s master again. I put my nose out when I saw him. He stopped and smoothed my neck. And, meanwhile, I found a pocket jammed with grass.
As Thunderbolt saw the grass disappear, he laid back his ears. “The Dealers take you!” he grumbled.