“Oh, don’t ask me, my dear, don’t ask me. What could master be a-thinking!”
Her words filled me with so much dread that I hurried out into the yard, hardly knowing which I feared most—to go, or to be forced to stay at home, for the adventure through the dark hours of the night began to seem to be something far more full of peril than I had thought a ride up to market on the cart would prove.
The sight of Ike, however, made me forget the looks of Mrs Dodley, and I was soon busy with him in the stable—that is to say, I held the lantern while he harnessed “Basket,” the great gaunt old horse whom I had so nicknamed on account of the way in which his ribs stuck out through his skin.
“You don’t give him enough to eat, Ike,” I said.
“Not give him enough to eat!” he replied. “Wo ho, Bonyparty, shove yer head through. That’s the way. Not give him enough to eat, my lad! Lor’ bless you, the more he eats the thinner he gets. He finds the work too hard for him grinding his oats, for he’s got hardly any teeth worth anything.”
“Is he so old, then?” I asked, as I saw collar and hames and the rest of the heavy harness adjusted.
“Old! I should just think he is, my lad. Close upon two hunderd I should say’s his age.”
“Nonsense!” I said; “horses are very old indeed at twenty!”
“Some horses; but he was only a baby then. He’s the oldest horse as ever was, and about the best; ain’t you, Basket? Come along, old chap.”
The horse gave a bit of a snort and followed the man in a slow deliberate way, born of custom, right out into the yard to where the trestle-supported cart stood. Then as I held the lantern the great bony creature turned and backed itself clumsily in between the shafts, and under the great framework ladder piled up with baskets till its tail touched the front of the cart, when it heaved a long sigh as if of satisfaction.