“Poor chap,” said master kindly, “no power of digestion. Not your own fault, likely.”
“What are you givin’ me,” said the young man wonderingly.
Master looked him all over. I knew what he was thinking, “Poor weak-backed, gutter-boy, fished out of the troubled waters of New York, and sent here to be reformed”—but it was master’s duty to undertake the job. Likely he’d fail, but it was up to him to try.
“Come on, boy,” he said suddenly, clapping the lad’s greasy shoulder. “Let’s go look for something for you.”
The lad put his old weed of a cap on his head, but master strolled out bareheaded. The sun was getting low, and it was not as hot as it had been.
First he went to the gardens, and tried them on the lad. Roses and cabbages did not appeal to him, and he surveyed them with a dull eye. He didn’t care to dig in the ground.
Master took him to the garage. No, motor-cars did not strike his fancy, either. He hadn’t courage, nor skill enough to manage any kind of a machine.
The tiny stable was the next place to visit. Here lived Moonstone, a Shetland pony, nominally George Washington’s, but he was too young to ride it yet, and young Egbert had the sole use of it.
Neither did the pony appeal to the poor city boy. I could have told master he didn’t care for animals, for he had successively passed by me, Amarilla, King Harry, and Cannie, without a word for one of us.
“Let’s stroll down to the village,” said master. “Perhaps we’ll find something there.” So down we went along the high road, then fragrant with flowering rosebushes.