“You haven’t good horse sense,” declared Thunderbolt. “A flea-bitten screw with cockled hocks would see more. Didn’t you notice how nice my master was to your Missy?”
I fairly pawed with delight. “Of course I noticed it,” I answered. And until the next apple-day I was careful to do my part. I nosed Thunderbolt’s master when he came in, I picked up my feet in my best style when I went out beside his trap, and I pranced. And when Missy wanted to turn me into the bridle-path, I passaged and champed.
Thunderbolt’s master and Missy spent an hour in our boxes every day. They fed us dainties and talked to each other, and he was especially kind to me, patting me a lot and praising me. And I saw—well, I can see farther than my muzzle—and I was as happy as a Grand Prix winner.
And then one day—something seemed wrong with Missy. She arrived earlier than usual, and had nothing for me. When she entered my stall, she threw her arms around my neck. “Oh, Hector! Hector!” she whispered, so sadly. And I saw she had a letter crumpled up in one hand.
When Peter took off my sheet, she stepped back and looked me over. “You dear darling!” she said, just as if she were going to cry. “Peter, isn’t he beautiful? I’ve had him ever since he was a colt.” And she laid her pretty cheek against me.
“Oi never seen a foiner, miss,” said Peter. “Up-headed, an’ wid a mouth that ud drive on a t’read.”
Thunderbolt’s master came in then, and when he’d said good-morning he sent Peter away for something and stepped over into my box. Missy turned away from him, and he couldn’t help but see that she wasn’t acting as usual. But I don’t believe he understood it any better than I did. For he looked puzzled, and then he raised his hat again.
“Do you know,” he said, “it’s just occurred to me that I’ve been very remiss. I’ve never even introduced myself properly to you. And I haven’t the pleasure of your name, either.”
“If people are fond of horses——” began Missy. She fell to patting my nose.
“My name is England,” went on Thunderbolt’s master, “Edward England.”