Dear Missy turned to me again, and put her arms about my neck. “I’m not brave about this,” she whispered, and hid her face in my mane.
All of a sudden he pulled her hands free and turned her toward him. “You love him,” he said. “I wonder if there’s room in your heart for anyone else, dear little woman?”
And just at that moment that ragamuffin of a stable-boy popped into sight. Of course, I was led away.
I don’t know how I ever lived through the next few days. No Missy, no dainties, nothing but a short airing each morning to take me out of that terrible shanty. Ah, I knew what had happened to me this time. I was out of the Sanborn family. I was somebody else’s lady’s saddler!
Then, one morning, when the boy led me out through the gate, he started off south along the Boulevard. I had on my dress-blanket and hood. Behind me came another boy, carrying my saddle and bridle and the rest of my clothes. This was going somewhere.
“They can’t find any place in New York worse than that shanty,” I said to myself. And for the first time since leaving California, I completely lost heart. I put my head down and just stumbled long.
And then—I suddenly found that we had passed the Circle, turned east, and were in front of Hart’s! We mounted the runway. And there it was—the roomy box-stall across from Thunderbolt’s, deep with sweet bedding, and matted in Peter’s best style. And there was Missy, looking so pink and pretty! And there was Mr. England, smiling so hard he couldn’t talk!
“Dear Hector!” cried Missy. “Oh, Martin, be very good to him while we’re away!”
“Yes, mum,” said Martin.
“And to Thunderbolt, too,” said Missy.