HERE AND THERE.
Five days later the bailiffs were upon the premises, and a week
afterwards I was put down in the inventory and catalogue of an
auctioneer as Lot 96. Everything was to be sold off, for Mr. Benjamin
Bunter had told the truth when he informed his wife that he was a ruined
man. Always a careless liver, he had allowed debt to accumulate, and
when the pinch came, sought to retrieve his position by gambling. The
result was what any sane man might have expected—he made matters worse,
adding disgrace to his misfortunes.
Several of the neighbours came to look at me, and I heard many of them
speak with great censure upon the fact of my master having so near his
bankruptcy wasted his money upon the race-course; but with all of them
the sin lay with the betting so near his bankruptcy—against betting
itself they said not a word; indeed I found this fearful evil had taken
very deep root among the people, and that most of them, both high and
low, indulged much or little in the baneful habit.
Benjamin Bunter and his wife and children disappeared. I heard it stated
that they were living in a small street near the Borough Market, and
that Bunter was working as a labourer there; whether it was true or not
I cannot say—I never saw them again.
The day of the sale came on, and I was knocked down to a horse
dealer—just such another man as brought me from Upton—for fifteen
pounds, and he, even while he was paying the money, loudly declared that
I was a bad bargain to any man for eight: this is a habit of his class,
and I felt in nowise hurt by the declaration. He took me home, had my
coat trimmed, physicked me a little, and then, as before, I figured in a
general sale.
A publican named Newman bought me, but I was with him only a week—I was
too slow, he said—and then he tried to sell me. Several men came to his
stable, but none cared to strike a bargain, so the publican got up a
raffle, with forty members at ten shillings per head. The humiliation of
being disposed of in this way has haunted me ever since, but like other
things I have learnt to bear it. A Mr. Somerfield won me; but he was a
railway clerk, without either the accommodation for keeping or the time
to use a horse, and I was sold again at once to a chimney sweep.
He took me home, and put me into a stable with a tall bony horse
belonging to a carrier who worked between Hornsey and London. I tried to
make friends with this horse at once, and found that I had no easy task
ahead of me, for my companion, naturally rather inclined to be grumpy,
was furthermore suffering from a very bad cold.
Kind words and patience, however, are capital things, and within an hour
we were chatting confidentially together. From him I learned that the
life of a carrier’s horse was a very hard one—out all weathers, standing
about in the cold and wet, and journeying a long way with very heavy
loads to drag, and sometimes, especially about Christmas time, the work
of the day was not over until past midnight.
‘They don’t think much about our welfare,’ concluded my companion with a
sigh; ‘when one horse is worn-out they buy another, and work him to
death in his turn.’
‘Are worn-out carriers’ horses taken to the—the—ahem!—the knackers?’ I
inquired.
I knew I was upon delicate ground, and tried to put the question as
pleasantly as possible. My companion answered with perfect freedom.
‘Some go to the knacker’s,’ he replied. ‘But very few of us are entirely
worn-out; there is a little life left in us yet, and we go to the cab
proprietors generally for night work.’
‘To run in the night cabs?’
‘Just so.’
‘What sort of work is that?’ I asked.
‘Don’t ask me,’ was the reply, given with a shudder. ‘If it ever be your
lot you will know all about it; if you escape it, better remain in
ignorance of its horrible misery.’
A strange quiver ran through my frame. I did not know then what I know
now, that it was a sympathetic foreshadowing of the life that was to be.
I remained in the stable four days, and during that time saw many people
who were looking after a horse. I was, however, not the horse they
wanted, and none of them were the style of master I wished; so it
happily fell out that I was still on hand at the end of the four days,
when an elderly gentleman came to look at me.
I saw in an instant that this was the master for me. His age was about
sixty, and his face was radiant with love and goodwill; there was a
tenderness in the very way he looked at me, and my heart warmed towards
him the moment he entered the stable.
A man who had charge of the stable came with him, and expressed his
readiness to trot me up and down to show off my action or speed.
‘No, no,’ said the old gentleman; ‘there is no need for that; I can see
it is the horse I want, patient and quiet. My daughter is a great
invalid, and this is just the thing to suit her. I know the price, and
the price will suit me. What is his name?’
‘Blossom,’ replied the man.
‘Poor Blossom,’ returned the old gentleman, patting me tenderly; ‘long
passed the spring-time of life, but a good creature, I warrant, still.
Send him to Maythorn Lodge tonight. Graham is my name.’
As he left the stable my heart bounded with joy at the prospect of such
a master. Here at last was a hope of a long-encouraged dream to be
realized—a home where I could end my old days in happiness and peace. I
lay among the straw revolving this bright, pleasant hope again and again
within my mind, half sleeping, half waking, with a sense of being at
_rest_. I pondered thus until the evening drew nigh, and a stableboy
made his appearance to take me home.
The lad bore a distant resemblance to his master; but it was in
expression and not in feature. The kindness of the employer had set a
seal upon the employed, and I read contentment and happiness upon every
feature. If any confirmation was wanted as to the nature of the home I
was going to, this gave it to me; and with a heart fast beating with joy
and hope, I stepped out lightly close behind my guide.
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