The ride on Timoleon, which was an exciting one from start to finish, was enough fun for the children for one day. They sought no other amusement. When they had seen Aaron feed and groom the horse, they went to the big house, where they knew the ride had created a sensation. There, in answer to numberless questions asked by their mother, they told a part of the story of their ride. They said nothing about hearing Timoleon talk, for they knew that not even their grandfather would believe that part of the story. But they told all about the ride, how swiftly and easily the horse went, and how gentle he was. Buster John was, of course, quite a hero, and Sweetest Susan shared all the honors with him.
The children’s mother had more than half a notion to read them a lecture; but the white-haired grandfather protested against this. He said the youngsters were perfectly safe in Aaron’s care. He declared he didn’t want to see boys play the part of girls, nor girls act like dolls. Then he began to talk about Little Crotchet, who had been so fond of Aaron. It was curious to the children to hear the white-haired grandfather talk of their uncle (whom they had never seen) as though he were a little boy.
“It seems but yesterday,” said the old gentleman, with a gentle sigh that ended in a smile, “that Little Crotchet was hobbling through the house on his crutches, or scampering about the neighborhood on the Gray Pony. But the Gray Pony is grazing out there in the orchard, and Little Crotchet has been dead these fifteen years. If he were alive now, he would be twenty-nine years old.”
The old gentleman fell to musing, and sat silent for a little while. Then he went on, as if talking to himself:—
“And I am seventy-three, and Aaron is forty, and, let me see, the pony is eighteen, and Timoleon seventeen. All getting old.”
“Uncle Crotchet wasn’t always crippled, was he, grandfather?” asked Sweetest Susan.
“Oh, no,” replied the old gentleman. “Until he was seven years old he was as healthy a child as I ever saw. Then he was suddenly taken ill, and lay in his bed for months. After that he was never able to walk without crutches. Twenty-nine years old! Why, he’d be a man grown. As it is, he is still a little boy. I remember,” the grandfather continued, becoming reminiscent, “when he wanted me to buy Aaron. From the very first the two had a fancy for each other. Aaron came from Virginia in a speculator’s caravan. He became so unmanageable that he had to be sold. Little Crotchet begged me to buy him, but I stood joking with the little fellow, and before I knew it our neighbor across the creek had bought him.”
“Old Mr. Gossett?” inquired Buster John.
“Yes,” replied the grandfather. “Mr. Gossett bought Aaron. Little Crotchet was so distressed about it that I offered Mr. Gossett half as much more for Aaron than he had given. But he refused it. Then I offered him twice as much, and he refused that, and I didn’t feel able to give any more.”