“What do you mean?” he exclaimed, “by racing off in this way! If I didn’t know that was Mistress Margery Lippett’s horse I would have let you go on, seeing that you haven’t sense enough to know he has lost a shoe.”
At this Roger quickly stopped his steed.
“Which one?” he exclaimed—“Here Phœbe, I must get down—the hind foot shoe is gone.”
ON THE ROAD ONCE MORE.
“Oh, Roger,” cried Phœbe, “what would mother say! She is so careful of Dobbin, and she charged us to take heed of him; and Roger, must we go home, do you think?”
“Of course not,” replied Roger, “and see here Dick,” for he now recognized his pursuer, “cannot you tell me where to find a blacksmith?”
“There is one at Torrey,” said Dick, “a mile down that road. It is the nearest place, but it will take you out of your way, if you are going to the Blooming as am I, who must be off, or my master will take my ears in pay for my tarrying.”
It was easy enough to find the blacksmith’s shop, but the blacksmith was not there, although he would soon be back, his wife said. Roger tied his horse, and then he and Phœbe wandered about until he declared it was lunch time; so they came back, and were about to eat their lunch by the stile, when the smith’s wife saw them, and calling them into her kitchen, spread a table for them, and added a cold pie and some milk to their repast.
But still the man did not come, and Roger waited in great impatience. He was almost ready to start off again for Quainton, but Phœbe was so sure that the penalty of injuring Dobbin would be the never trusting of them alone again, that he was afraid to risk it. Then there came a man with two horses to be shod, and he waited and scolded and stamped his feet, and then the blacksmith came, but he at once attended to the man, and so Dobbin had to wait. But at last Dobbin was shod, and Roger mounted, and then the blacksmith lifted Phœbe up.