"Of course you know nothing of it," I said. "I stumbled on it by accident. I came here to plead with you to keep him at home."
"And what business is it of yours?" he asked, "if my master chooses to take a night ride?"
He whinnied so shrilly that all the ponies stopped eating and listened to what he was saying.
They were in a row beyond him. First came my stall, then Apache Girl's, then Attaboy's, the Exmoor's, David Wales', the Welsh pony's, the donkey's, and the dear little Master of Bressay's.
I stood in the alley way, and behind me and opposite the ponies were the stalls of Largs and Dalry, the two well set-up Clydesdales, and the saddle horses Patsie McSquirrel and Backwoods Beauty.
It was quite a congress of horseflesh, and I was just as well pleased to have everybody hear, for I might want some help before I got through with this stubborn Attaboy.
"Your young master is in a desperate frame of mind," I said.
"Boys often run away from home," he replied indifferently, "it is a common thing for them to do when peeved."
"But this boy, I tell you, is in a terrible state. He thinks Mr. and Mrs. Devering are not his real parents."
Patsie McSquirrel put in a word there. "Sure there is one adopted child in the family. Prince Fetlar is right there, but I don't know which one it is."