Instantly, I felt Missy’s fingers tighten, and I saw her face grow white. “England!” she said under her breath; “Edward England!”
She was standing on my off side now, and Thunderbolt’s master could not see her. “I presume it’s a name you’re not unfamiliar with,” he went on again. “But don’t mistake me for dad. He’s been manipulating wool lately, and the press keeps pretty close track of him.” And he laughed.
“Yes—I—I have heard,” answered Missy, slowly, and as Peter led me toward the runway, she followed—without another word. She walked unevenly, as a horse goes when he’s got the blind staggers.
I was sorry she hadn’t told him who we were. For I must say that, on the Coast, no family stands better than the Sanborns. But Missy was changed—something had happened to her.
The very next day, something happened to me. Peter came down the stalls with a strange groom behind him and stopped at my box. For the swish of a tail, I didn’t think anything of that, for we often have new grooms. But when Peter put on my halter, and then my hood and dress-blanket, and the man took my leading-strap, I knew I was to be taken away somewhere.
I felt so startled and excited that I am sure I misbehaved. But the groom talked kindly to me, and Peter slapped me on the flank, and so I tried to go quietly. I think the other horses knew I was leaving—that strange groom gave them the hint. They looked around at me, and one whinnied to ask me what was the matter. They were all stall boarders, and of course I didn’t know them. And I was too unhappy to answer, anyway. For Thunderbolt was out in the trap, and, if I was going, I could not tell him good-bye.
“What if I’m sold?” I kept saying to myself as I went down the runway and out to the street. “What if I’m sold?” I shivered, for all my covering. “Oh, Missy, you wouldn’t do that!”
Then another terrible thought: Is Missy going to get an auto? But that couldn’t be—Missy hates autos.
Soon enough, I found out what had happened. The strange groom led me toward the Hudson, then north again—I am never mistaken in directions—and, finally, into a good-sized stable that stood midway of a block. Here, I was led upstairs—and into a standing-stall.
It made me cross, and I tried my hind shoes on the mats in short order (a blooded horse is expected to be nervous and impatient at times). But the place was clean and comfortable, and the double line of horses were, I must say, a very decent lot—not show horses, but good of their kind. All were fresh littered and well blanketed, and seemed contented enough. “This is where I’m going to live, I guess,” I thought to myself. Pretty soon I was sure of it. For here came Missy in her riding clothes.