“Why, he talks!” exclaimed Jack.
“It’s because he’s got a cold in his head,” observed one of the washerwomen; “he always talks when he’s got a cold, and there’s no pleasing him; whatever you say, he’s not satisfied. Gee, Boney, do!”
“Gee it is, then,” said the horse, and began to jog on.
“He spoke again!” said Jack, upon which the horse laughed, and Jack was quite alarmed.
“It appears that your horses don’t talk?” observed the blue-coated woman.
“Never,” answered Jack; “they can’t.”
“You mean they won’t,” observed the old horse; and though he spoke the words of mankind, it was not in a voice like theirs. Still Jack felt that his was just the natural tone for a horse, and that it did not arise only from the length of his nose. “You’ll find out some day, perhaps,” he continued, “whether horses can talk or not.”
“Shall I?” said Jack, very earnestly.
“They’ll TELL,” proceeded the white horse. “I wouldn’t be you when they tell how you’ve used them.”
“Have you been ill used?” said Jack, in an anxious tone.