Fernbrook, who is a powerful bay horse, was lifting up the bar of his stall with his teeth. Afterward, he pounded the whole length of the stable with his heavy hoofs, bent over a tool-box, took out a large hammer, and dropped it beside Thomas.
Mr. Bonstone smiled proudly, and the old gentleman said, “Magnificent!”
“Dollie Whitehead, bring me my coat,” called Thomas, going on with his pounding.
A dapper little white mare let herself out of her stall, went up to a hook where an overcoat was hanging, and carried it out to the yard, holding it high so it would not drag on the snow.
As she stood dangling it from her mouth, Thomas jumped up and said rebukingly, “Why don’t you help her put it on me, Fernbrook?”
To the old gentleman’s surprise—Mr. Bonstone, Gringo and I had, of course, seen these performances many times before—the two sagacious animals held the coat by the back of the neck, while Thomas slipped his arms in it.
“Major Golderay,” called Thomas, “I want you.”
A roan horse—a perfect beauty—came stepping daintily out.
“Also Duchess of Normandy,” said Thomas, “Lady Jane Grey, and Poor Polly.”
The animals all came out, and formed a line-up before him.