Snowie and Bob were quiet.
It was the end of the season at Burney, and already many of the ponies
had left the sands to earn a winter living with the farmers round about.
“Or do odd jobs,” Jenkins said, anything, in fact, till summer came
round again, and they might go back to Burney and help to earn money by
riding children up and down the sands at so much an hour or less.
“I wonder if I shall go to my coughy old gentleman this winter,” began
Snowie. “I’ve been with him two winters already, and although he is
awfully wheezy, and limpy, he’s easier to manage than wriggly children.
Still I am sorry the summer is over. What say you, Bob?”
[Illustration: _Riding Children up and down on the Sands._]
“Well, yes,” answered the brown pony.
“Sometimes I wonder where they put seaside children in winter,”
continued Snowie. “Do they keep them in bed till the warm weather comes
back again—or how?”
“Bed indeed! A cast iron bed wouldn’t hold the lads I have to
carry—wobbly imps.”
“Well, we shall have to say good-bye, Bob. By the way, where do you put
up in the winter?”
“Oh! I suppose I shall have to earn my living with Carrots. You see, I
carry a boy, an only son, who lives near the moors, to school every
morning. Then I bring him back at nights. He lives on the moors and
sometimes a stiff time we have of it, what between blizzards and frosts,
and snowdrifts.”
“Then you get some fun?”
“Yes, now and again we do. Carrots is brimful of mischief when lessons
are over. I help him a bit now and then myself.”
“Our poor old master doesn’t look merry,” remarked Snowie, after a
while. “He’s not been well this summer. His limbs are getting stiff; I’m
afraid it’s been but a poor season for him.”
“Here they are, sir,” said Jenkins, walking towards the ponies. “As fine
a pair as you would wish to see. They’re good-tempered little creatures,
and thorough game. Rising seven, clean limbs, wind and eyesight, and
right sorry I’m to part with ’em. They’re the best couple I ever had.
That’s a fact. And if my health hadn’t broke down, and I’m giving up the
business, nothing in the world would have made me sell ’em.”
“They’re certainly a fine couple,” said the gentleman, patting first one
of them and then the other. He was evidently impressed, for presently he
said, “If your price is all right, I am sure they’ll suit my boy and
girl.” And do you know it only took a few minutes to settle the bargain?
You could see that old Jenkins was pleased, the way he clinked the gold
before dropping it into his bag. “I feel sure you’ll be good to ’em,
sir,” he said, as the gentleman was walking away. “It’s been a quick,
satisfactory bargain, but I knows you’ll not regret it.” And before
Snowie had got over the fright—for she had been listening with all the
ears she had got—and Bob had realised what had taken place, old Jenkins
had tossed off his coat, and was grooming them down in a spluttering,
whistly wheezing way, and muttering away to himself something in this
manner:
[Illustration]
“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.
[Illustration: 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?”
“Is my mane straight?”
“I wonder what our old master is going to retire on. I hope he has
plenty to keep him.”
“You will see I shall get new shoes to-morrow morning.”
“Bob, are you listening to what I am saying!”
“I have oats for dinner, corn for breakfast, beans for supper, and—”
“Oh! he’s quite stupid,” sighed Snowie, “pride has completely turned his
head.” Then she heaved a very big sigh. Bob took no notice of that.
Suddenly he cried, “You must forget you ever ply’d for hire on Burney
Sands, Snowie. Never, never remind me of it. You’re to mix with quality
now, my dear.”
“By the way, that groom knew you, Bob.”
“Rather, I shouldn’t have known him though. He was in the stable where I
was born. You understand? I always told you that I belonged to quality
folks, Snowie.”
Snowie heaved another big sigh. “His head is completely turned,” she
said. “Bob can’t stand prosperity. I shall have to keep my eye on him, I
know I shall.”
[Illustration]
They had reached the Hall at last, and were taken round to the stable.
Bob took it all in at a glance. “Snowie,” he said, in an awed voice,
“Snowie, we’re going to retire here.” Presently the sound of children’s
voices burst upon them.
“Oh! David, you have brought the ponies. Father, they have come. We have
been looking for you for an hour at least. What beauties! Which is for
me, father?” cried Lawrence.
“And me, father,” cried Betty.
“The brown pony is for you, my child, and Lawrence is to have the white
one. So you like them, my dears?”
“Like them? Oh, we love them, father! Wherever did you find such
treasures? Thanks, thanks, a thousand times thanks, you dear kind
father.” And the children threw their arms around his neck and kissed
him again most heartily.
“There now, that is all right,” said Squire Morton, putting his collar
straight. “Now mount. Never mind a saddle. David shall come and show
your mother how you can ride your new possessions.”
And leaping upon their backs Lawrence and Betty trotted away, using the
primitive reins that hung loosely round their ponies’ necks, and
behaving like experienced equestrians.
“See, mother, what a lovely little creature mine is,” cried Betty.
“And mine,” cried Lawrence. “She is as white as milk and her name is
Snowie.”
“How pleased the children are, John,” said their mother, “you could not
have found a more suitable birthday gift.”
Whereat the Squire laughed.
“Just have a ride about the park, children, and then let David lead them
away. It is tea-time now, and to-morrow morning you must both be up
early and have a canter before breakfast.”
Afterwards when they were together in the stable and were made
comfortable for the night, “Snowie,” said Bob, “before I go to sleep I
should like t’fess. I told you a big fib as we were coming along from
the station.”
“Oh,” said the sedate little mare, looking much shocked.
“Yes, I did. It was such a sudden change. And things have fashioned
themselves so funnily I couldn’t stand it.”
“I understand,” said Snowie.
“You remember, David?”
“The groom here, yes.”
“I said he was groom in the stables where I was born.”
“I know you did.”
“Well, I said a very big fib.”
“Oh, Bob!”
“David knew me when I trundled a rag and bone cart along the streets of
London in company with my first owner, Mistress Sally Brimstone.”
“Yes, Bob. Rag and bone cart. Sally Brimstone? I can’t understand it!”
cried Snowie, aghast.
[Illustration]
“No, but I can. Old Sally sold me to old Jenkins for thirty shillings.
That’s where I came from, Snowie. Fact!”
“But you always told me you were gently reared.”
“I’m afraid I always told you fibs. Now I’m going to turn over a new
leaf in this new situation. From henceforth I shall speak the truth.”
“Bob.”
“Yes.”
“If I were you I would just hold my tongue and from henceforth say
nothing at all!”
“Oh!”
And so let us leave them, children.
_Printed in Bavaria._
------------------------------------------------------------------------