“Don’t get ugly,” I said. “I’ll divide my tidbits with you. To-day I’ll get an apple.”
“How do you know?” he snorted. He was careful to appear on his best behaviour, however, for his master was looking at his hoofs.
“Monday, sweet biscuit,” I began; “Tuesday, sugar; Wednesday, carrots; Thursday, an apple; Friday, cracked corn; Saturday, stale bread and molasses; Sunday, marshmallows.”
“What are marshmallows?” asked Thunderbolt. “Do they grow in a meadow?”
“They don’t,” I answered. “They come in Missy’s handkerchief. As near as I can make out, they are sweet chunks of bran mash.”
We stopped talking then, for Missy came, dressed for a canter. She didn’t see Thunderbolt’s master at first, for he was still stooping over. And after I had a bite of apple, she held out a piece to Thunderbolt.
“You pretty fellow!” she said.
At that, up popped Thunderbolt’s master. And they bowed, and said good-morning, and he pointed out Thunderbolt’s good points—deep chest and bold eye, and Missy followed with mine—tapering ears, broad forehead set with a star, and long, arched neck. So it was quite a bit before I was ready to go out. Thunderbolt’s master put Missy up and drove his trap beside us so that they could chat all the way to the Park.
“Did you notice?” asked Thunderbolt when we were both in again and John and Peter were grooming us.
“Did I notice what?” I asked, licking my salt.