“Come on up to see the horses,” he said. “I see my boss just going up with an S. P. C. A. man he brought out from the city to-day.”
I limped gleefully after him. The Green Hill stables always reminded me of the Leland Stanford stables in California, which are kept so quiet for the horses, and where they have the same intelligent care as they do here.
The S. P. C. A. gentleman was quite old, and he was standing beside Mr. Bonstone, and staring about him with great interest.
The stable doors were wide open. Each horse or colt had a good-sized box-stall to himself, and every one of them was turned head toward the door, watching Thomas who was repairing a cement combination drinking-fountain in the middle of the stable yard. It was for human beings, horses, birds and dogs. Something had gone wrong in the foundation, and Thomas was on his knees on the ground, with a pail of cement beside him, and a hammer and chisel.
“Thomas,” said Mr. Bonstone, “talk a bit to the horses, will you?”
Thomas touched his cap, and was about to get up but Mr. Bonstone said, “Keep on with your work, and call them about you as I have seen you do.”
Thomas, who is a very quiet, but a very intelligent, man of English ancestry, said, “All right, sir,” and seizing the hammer, he threw it to one side and called out, “Fernbrook Deputy, bring me the big hammer from the tool-box.”
The old gentleman in the big fur coat turned his spectacles in the direction of the stable.