"It seems hard that they cannot be sure of a rest on Sunday, at least," said Mr. Spencer. "Some horses work all the week, and are then driven for miles on Sunday."
"Yes," said Robert. "We often see tired horses taking heavy wagonloads of people to the beach."
"Horses need to rest one day in seven," said Mr. Spencer. "When horse- cars were used in New York, it was found that no horse could do good work unless he had a day of rest once a week. A horse is not a machine. He suffers just as we do with hunger, thirst, and fatigue. Sometimes he needs a dentist or a doctor, just as we do."
As Mr. Spencer talked he was walking toward the white horse under the tree. The horse got up stiffly and slowly, and rubbed his nose against Mr. Spencer's shoulder.
"Oh, what a wretched-looking old horse!" said Robert. "He doesn't belong to you, does he?"
Mr. Spencer patted the horse's neck and gave him a few lumps of sugar.
"This horse isn't old," he said, "but he is worn out with hard work and abuse. He doesn't look like my other horses, does he?"
"No, indeed!" said Robert. "How did you happen to own him?"
"A few years ago," said Mr. Spencer, "he was a fine young horse. He belonged to a man I knew who thought little of the comfort of the animals in his care. I doubt very much if this poor horse ever wore a blanket in cold weather, and I know that many a time a frosty bit was put into his mouth."
"Does a bit need to be warmed?" asked Robert.