MY NEW MASTER, BENJAMIN BUNTER.
I was sent down to a place about two miles from Blackheath, on the
Forest Hill side, and spent the days of my leisure in a field, sharing
the welcome grass with half a dozen cows belonging to a local dairyman.
It was almost as bad as being alone, having no other horse for a
companion; for the cows, not very conversational among themselves, did
not care to accost a stranger who spoke a language they did not
understand.
It was not like my early home, but it was a paradise compared to the
dungeon I lived in down Lambeth way, and I would have been well content
to have spent the rest of my days there; but I had a great amount of
work left in my bones yet, and it was not to be.
When the month was up, Jim Harkaway came to fetch me. I am sorry to say
that he was rather the worse for beer when he arrived, and before we got
home he was in a horrible state of intoxication. We met Mr. Harkaway
near home, and the way his son addressed him was very shocking; you
would not hear it from any creature save man—the noblest in his best
condition, in his fall the most degraded.
High words ensued between father and son, and several people stopped one
after the other; but they all went on again, saying that it was ‘only
old Harkaway and his precious son,’ so I concluded that these scenes
between them were growing common. In the end Mr. Harkaway wrenched the
bridle away from his son, and led me up a turning opposite the shop. I
was surprised at not going home, and still more surprised when he halted
before a greengrocer’s shop, and Mr. Harkaway asked a stout woman if her
husband was at home.
‘He’s round the yard,’ was the reply; ‘but he will be here in a minute.’
In less than a minute the husband came—a short, thick-set man, deeply
pock-marked, and dressed in corduroy, with a flaring red silk
handkerchief round his throat.
‘Mornin’, Mr. Harkaway,’ he said.
‘Morning,’ replied my master. ‘I have brought Blossom to you myself. Jim
is going on worse than ever.’
‘Sorry to hear it,’ said the other. ‘But you ain’t half sharp enough
with him. If he was a son of mine, I would give him the key of the
street, as sure as my name is Benjamin Bunter.’
‘Mrs. Harkaway clings to him,’ said Mr. Harkaway nervously; ‘she is a
woman, and he is an only son; but it is a great trial—the money he
wastes is enough to break one’s heart.’
Not a word about the vice of the youth—it was still pounds, shillings,
and pence to the furniture dealer.
“Well, what are we to say for Blossom?’ said the greengrocer, stroking
my fore-leg with his hand.
‘He is worth thirty,’ replied Mr. Harkaway. ‘I am only selling him
because I was obliged to buy two horses to carry on my business while he
was away. He is worth thirty pounds.’
‘You mean twenty,’ said Benjamin Bunter shortly.
‘No—thirty, I mean.’
‘Twenty.’
In this style they haggled for awhile, and the bargain ended in the
usual way; I became the property of Benjamin Bunter, greengrocer, for
the sum of twenty-five pounds sterling.
In this manner I parted from the furniture dealer, and we never met
again; but I learnt his fate in a casual way, and I may as well give it
here. He was killed in a railway accident on his way back from a country
sale, and having died without a will (he had put it off a hundred times
on the ground of the expense), the better part of his property fell into
the hands of his son, who justified his worldly training by squandering
the money like dirt, and dying, while yet in his youth, mad with drink.
What became of the mother I never knew.
Let me turn to my new master, Benjamin Bunter, and endeavour to describe
him to my reading friends as I afterwards knew him. This master of mine
was what is known as a ‘free living man’—he made a deal of money in his
business, and spent it almost as soon as he got it. He was very fond of
eating and drinking, and delighted in such pleasure as could be found on
race-courses, at pigeon matches, and so on. His wife had precisely
similar tastes, and they jogged on very well together; and the
half-dozen children they had brought into the world were, as far as food
and clothing went, well cared for, but all else was entirely neglected.
Let me speak of the man as I found him. Benjamin Bunter had a kind
heart, and he fed me liberally; but he was a thoughtless man, and many a
time he has, without the slightest regard for my good or ill, kept me
all day without food at a pigeon match, and then taken up half a dozen
men with him for ‘a lift’ home. He would also drive his wife and
children to Epping for a day’s outing, and the exhaustion I have felt
after the efforts required on such occasions was very great.
With regard to the pigeon-shooting I wish to say, without going into the
subject, that I think it a very cruel and unmanly sport. The contest is
not equal in any way. What can be more cowardly than to box up a poor
helpless thing for awhile, then pretend to give it liberty and shoot it
as soon as it shows its head? Call that ‘sport’—I wonder men are not
ashamed of it!
I was employed in the business mostly, and very often I was in the
Borough Market as early as four o’clock, and there I met with many
horses and ponies engaged in the same trade; some were well cared for
and fed liberally, but others had cruel or indifferent masters. Some of
the men were given to bad language, and used the most fearful oaths
whenever their animals did even the slightest thing wrong. Generally the
fault lay with the masters, who perhaps had a little difficulty in
fixing their carts among the rest, and instead of going quietly and
easily to work, out came the whip, and the horse’s head was wrenched
about, until he was quite bewildered. Who can wonder if the poor
creature backed into the wrong place, or showed a tendency to go
opposite to the direction required? Man talks a deal about reason, but
he too often forgets to act upon it, especially when he is dealing with
such poor creatures as myself.
The scenes in the market were very exciting and amusing as a rule, but
many of them were painful. Foul language was sometimes followed by a
brutal fight, which gave amusement to a thoughtless crowd, until the
police appeared. Whenever such a scene took place I noticed that the
fighting men were invariably the worse for drink; the sober buyers,
sellers, and labourers always did their work quickly and went away
quietly.
I am now coming to an episode in my life which requires an entire
chapter to itself, for it opened up to me a new train of thought with
regard to the connection between horse and man, and the really important
influence they have upon each other. One night, late in the month of
May, Benjamin Bunter came into my stable and gave me an extra grooming,
combing my coat and plaiting my mane with wonderful care. While he was
at work Mrs. Bunter entered with a large bonnet covered with flowers in
her hand. Mrs. Bunter, by the way, had a great love for bright colours,
and was generally a walking object of envy to her less fortunate
neighbours.
‘There, Ben,’ she said, holding it up, ‘I think that will do.’
‘It’s prime,’ was his reply. ‘There won’t be many bonnets like that upon
the course. Everybody will know as we drive along that we are going to
the races. Come over, Blossom—steady there.’
[Illustration: I AM GROOMED BY BENJAMIN BUNTER.]
So I was going to the races. Here was a prospect of something new to me,
and I immediately thought of Rip’s great-grandfather, who had nearly won
something or other many years ago; and then I wondered what that
something was, and in what way it was contested; and then I wondered
what had become of Rip, and I continued wondering long after Benjamin
Bunter had finished work and retired to his supper in the little parlour
behind his well-stocked shop.
Sleep was almost a stranger to my eyes that night. Stimulated by
excitement, I continued to think and wonder until the first grey light
of the morning came stealing through the window of my stable, and then I
fell into a fitful doze, to dream that I was a race-horse of the purest
blood, famous for my victories throughout the length and breadth of the
land.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]