2
"You might at least think of Early Ann," Stud's wife had said. He had thought of her until his spirit was tired, argued the problem with himself, tossed in his sleep.
Now he was almost happy to have another grievance to occupy his mind. Momentarily Early Ann was forgotten.
The Percheron had been grained too heavily and had not been given sufficient exercise. What else might be the matter with the great beast, the Lord alone knew.
"You and me, both!" Stud said to the sick stallion. "I wish all I had the matter with me was a belly ache."
Doc Carlyle was out of town, so it was up to Brailsford to save the horse,—no easy task. Teddy Roosevelt's head drooped almost to the floor; his big, shining barrel was blown, and his eyes were dull and lifeless. As Stanley and Gus stood watching the unfortunate animal he suddenly jerked up his head, pawed the floor, and tried to climb into the manger with his front feet.
"Poor old bastard," said Gus.
"Run get the pig bladder and elder shoot," Stanley said. "I'll fix some turpentine and linseed oil."
The turpentine made the stallion frantic. He broke into a cold sweat, plunged around and around his pen, threw himself down with a crash, rolled over and got up again, dashed headlong into the planks of his stall, stood on his hind legs pawing the air wildly, screamed and foamed at the mouth, fell to the floor—his gigantic muscles contracting spasmodically under his gleaming black hide. There was a mad, frightened light in his eyes.
"It'd be like losing a member of the family," Gus said.