On this particular morning Master Whitman murmured sadly to his pet as he continued to polish the sides of his symmetrical body until they shone like the bosom of the river when the afternoon sunlight played upon it; and his heavy mane and tail were brushed until they waved lightly under every passing breeze.
With unfailing intuition the colt saw the future: their happy home, alas, was about to be broken up. Even Caesar felt the prevailing gloom; dejectedly, he sat on a beam and washed his face for the fifth time that morning, though it was but just sunrise.
Gipsey peered over the partition of their stall and whinneyed softly, but with resignation, for, wise old horse that she was, she knew it was the lot of horses to be parted, sooner or later—here to-day, there to-morrow.
Presently the cat sprang nimbly down, and arching his back, rubbed himself against his master’s leg and purred with sympathy.
In spite of a certain sadness, True himself felt no little excitement—anticipating adventure, as is the manner of youth first starting out into the great world. He did not then know the horrors of homesickness from which affectionate horses suffer so keenly—suffering that neither sugar nor salt can assuage.
Master Whitman had always made play and pleasure of training, and had never given True a task he could not perform. For this reason the horse accepted every order unhesitatingly, with the confidence of absolute trust. They had become so endeared to one another for these and sundry other causes that the idea of a parting was inexpressibly saddening to both.
When, a half hour later, True was hitched to the “shay”—which he now pulled with such ease and pleasure—he fared forth, sad at heart, but eager and brisk in gait, as usual. The day had advanced and, as they travelled, the river glinted gold in the light which the morning sun threw over the fringe of trees along its banks. Very soon they arrived at the tavern where already several teams stood waiting.
Throwing the reins loosely on the horse’s back—for he had been trained to stand without hitching—Silas Whitman sprang from the “shay” and entered the tavern.
He was gone the best part of an hour, and when he returned he was not alone. A tall, slender stranger walked beside him, and as they drew near the colt perceived from the odor of this man that he was a pleasant-tempered person and friendly to animals.
Indeed, True liked him at once, and ’twas well, for the pale, scholarly looking man whose name he would one day bear, was none other than Justin Morgan, who had once lived in Springfield, but had moved to Randolph, Vermont, in 1788, with his family.