“I told her I was coming back at ten,” said Dicky Bill, “but I changed my mind. There’s nothin’ doin’ in town.”
Mr. Bonstone put up his hand to his face, to conceal a smile. His plan was to make country life so interesting, that town life seemed dull.
The old gentleman was speaking to Thomas. “You gave that mare some sign, didn’t you?”
“If I did, I didn’t know it,” said Thomas. “They may get something I don’t get myself, for they watch me closely. If I walk down by those stalls, and say to myself, ‘That black mare is off her feed, I’ll give her an extra ration of oats,’ she’ll whinny, and look toward the oat bin.”
“My wife says,” remarked Mr. Bonstone, “that when she gives a special feed of hemp to her hens, in order to catch one, they’ll all eat out of her hand but the one she has her mind on.”
“Wonderful,” said the old gentleman, “looks as if we were the brutes, and the animals the reasoning beings—I’ll have to catch my train—Thank you, my man. I’m going to send you a book about the Elberfeld horses.”
Gringo and I travelled slowly along after Mr. Bonstone and his friends on their way to the house, but stopped on the way to speak to Czarina, Yeggie, Weary Winnie and the Frenchmen who had had their early dinner, and were coming up to the stables for the night.
As we were talking, the old gentleman and Mr. Bonstone retraced their steps. They wanted to ask something further about the horses from Thomas.
The gentleman paused to look at us. “What a jolly lot of dogs,” he said—“they’re talking just as we are. I wonder what they’re saying. Just look at those intelligent faces. They understand us, but we can’t understand them.”
We dogs all gave each other knowing glances.