“‘I won’t,’ I says; ‘what’s the good of doctors?’
“‘What’s the good of lying there suffering?’ she says.
“I didn’t know, so I didn’t tell her; and at last, after I’d been twisting about early one morning like a skinned eel, she sent for the doctor, and he came.
“Curious thing, pain, ain’t it? I often think, that it would do some of these fellers as ill-use horses good if they had a sharp twist or two of right down real, genuine agony. I ain’t going to say that I never hits a horse, because I do, you know, when he’s a bit lazy or troublesome; but I never lay the whip on him unless it’s necessary, and I’ll do as much with my horses with kindness, as you will with kicks, and blows, and swearing.
“Well, I beg your pardon, you know, when I say you will by swearing, and kicks, and blows, I do not mean you yourself, you know, but people in general as handles the ribbins.
“Of course the best way to a horse’s affections is feeding him, but it’s wonderful what sense there is in the poor dumb beasts; and talking about pain puts me in mind of one ’oss as I used to drive. He was a chestnut ’oss, he was, as pretty a creature as ever you saw. Been a carriage ’oss, but the hair was taken off one of his shoulders, and through that blemish he came in our service. Never touched him with the whip, I didn’t, not to hit him; give him a gentle stroke down to take off the flies, or to lay his hair straight, I would, and he’d never flinch nor move, he knew my ways so well, and when I spoke he’d turn his head round and look at me, if his head was free enough, with them two great sensible eyes of his, so that we was quite friends.
“I’ve done what I never told anyone before—I’ve given the stableman who had him in charge more than one shilling so as no other driver should get ‘my chestnut,’ as I got to call him; and off and on I drove him three years, till one morning Wispey Joe, as he had him in charge, says to me, he says: ‘Chestnut’s rough. Got the staggers, I think.’
“I went into the stable in a hurry, for I was a bit late, and there, sure enough, was the poor ’oss with his legs stretched out like those of a stool, and his head down; but as soon as he heard my voice he whinnied, and roused up, making his halter rattle through the ring as he turned round to me, and I went up and patted him, and found that he hadn’t touched his corn, while he was all of a sweat.
“‘Come, old feller,’ I says; and I stirred his food up a bit, and, as if understanding me, he put his nose in the manger, but he only blew the meat about—good bruised oats and chopped meat it was, too—and then he looks up at me again, as much as to say, ‘It’s no good—I can’t feed.’
“So I took a handful of stuff out and held it to him, stroking his forelock with t’other hand, and he made a try at it, and then gave a regular sigh, and hung down his poor old head.