As Master Morgan pressed the muscles of the young horse the latter did not flinch nor draw away. Then the mouth had to be examined and the feet looked at, one by one. Questions had to be answered and other investigations made, common among men engaged in a horse deal.
Master Whitman answered the questions, or stood in grave silence, his eyes moist with the tears he could not entirely hide, as his acquaintance considered True’s various traits.
“Yes, sir,” the stranger finally said, “this colt, as you say, is free from natural blemish and is not disfigured by that cruel, prevailing practice of branding. He seems sound…. You say he is the son of De Lancey’s True Briton, and his mother a descendant of the Layton Barb?”
“I repeat it,” replied Silas Whitman, “these are the facts, to the best of my belief.”
He could scarcely trust himself to speak.
“He is remarkably well ribbed-up and firm under the mane, for so young a horse,” said Master Morgan, “but he is small.”
“He is not yet entirely developed,” was the answer. “You see, he is, as yet, scarce three years old. But he is a bit over fourteen hands, and weighs already upwards of nine hundred pounds. I told you he might be called a pony, except for his characteristics.”
“No doubt he will increase in weight, and maybe a bit in height,” Master Morgan agreed. “His Arabian ancestry would account for his size. Not that I am one of those foolish persons who considers size necessary for perfection,” he hastily added. “Since I have seen him I am willing to take him in place of the twenty-five dollars you owe me, though twenty-five dollars is a large sum, and I am a poor man. Shall we call it settled?”
For a moment True thought his old master would surely have one of his spells of faintness, but when he finally spoke his voice was brave and steady.
“The pony,” he said, gently, “will be ready for you in the morning.” He rested his arm across True’s neck, while the stranger looked away for a moment. “This little horse,” Silas continued, after a pause, having recovered himself, “has been to me what the ‘steed of the desert’ is to his Arab master. When I part with him I give you the best friendship I ever had; the best work of three years, spent in training and developing the intelligence of this remarkable horse. And, mark you, he will live to bear out the confidence I have in him. I have ever treated him as a human being; I have romped with him, played with him, talked to him as I might have talked to a child—if Providence had blessed my wife and me with such a treasure—but I have ever insisted upon obedience and respect, as a father should insist upon these qualities from a child.”