“Shoo! Snowie, my lass, come, yer going to leave yer old master and live with quality now. I know ye’ll behave yerself. It’s Bob what’s botherin’ me.” Here he began towselling the brown pony. “Mind when yer gets to yer new sitewation ye behave yerself, yer little varmint. No monkey tricks there, my man. No sly ways. You’ve both worked well for me, and I’ve done the best I can for yer both. I’ve sold yer to Squire Morton, and given yer first-class characters. So don’t go and disgrace yer old master—good-bye!”
And that was the way old Jenkins dismissed them.
They were taken to the station, bundled into a horse van, and presently arrived at Humshaugh, a quiet little countrified station, where a red-faced porter helped them out of the van, then gave them in charge of a groom who had come to meet them. “Why, Bob,” he cried on sighting the little brown pony, “whoever would have thought of seeing you again.”
“It’s David, ’pon my word it is,” cried Bob, stamping his feet and swishing his tail round and round like a windmill.
SNOWIE AND BOB.
“You seem to know the pony,” said the porter.
“Yes, we have met before. It’s funny that the Squire should pick up Bob of all ponies in the world. So this little white creature is Snowie I suppose?” Snowie blinked hard. She was too shy to answer “Yes.” It was such a big social leap for her to take jumping direct from Burney Sands to Humshaugh Park that it took all her breath away.
“Bob,” she ventured, as they were trotting along the road, “do you think we shall like the change?”