I shall never forget my new master. He had black eyes, a hooked nose, a mouth as full of teeth as a bulldog’s, and a voice as harsh as cart wheels on stones. His name was Nicholas Skinner, and I believe he was the man poor Seedy Sam drove for.
Skinner was hard on his drivers, and the drivers were hard on the horses. There was no Sunday rest, and it was the middle of a hot summer. My driver had a cruel whip that sometimes drew blood. Still I did my best, for, as poor Ginger said, it was no use fighting: men are the strongest. I began to wish, like Ginger, that I could drop down dead at my work, and one day my wish very nearly came true.
At the railway station a loud, rough man called our cab. He had a lady, a little boy, a young girl and a great deal of luggage with him. The girl came and looked at me.
“Papa,” she said, “this poor horse cannot take us and all our luggage. He is so weak and tired. Please take a second cab. I’m sure it is very cruel.”
“Nonsense, Grace. Get in at once and don’t make all this fuss. The man knows his own business.”
My gentle friend had to obey. Box after box was put on the top of the cab, and the driver whipped me out of the station.
I had had no food or rest since the morning, but I did my best. I got on fairly well until we came to Ludgate Hill. There the load was too much for me. I was struggling on, with the reins pulling and the whip falling, when suddenly my feet slipped and I fell heavily on my side. The fall knocked all the breath out of me. I lay quite still, and I thought I was going to die.
It was all like a dream. I thought I heard that sweet voice say, “Oh, that poor horse! It is all our fault.” Someone said, “He’s dead. He’ll never get up again.” But slowly my life came back, and a kind man helped me to get up.
The next morning, at Skinner’s stables, a horse doctor looked at me closely.
“This is overwork more than illness,” he said. “If you could give him six months’ rest, he would be able to work again. But now he has no strength left.”
“Then he must go to the men who kill old horses for meat,” said Skinner. “I have no fields to nurse sick horses in.”
“There is a horse sale in about ten days,” said the horse doctor. “If you rest him and feed him well, you may get more than his skin is worth.”
Skinner agreed, rather unwillingly I think. Ten days of complete rest, good oats and warm mashes did me more good than anything else could have done, and I began to think it might be better to live after all. Then I was taken to the sale. Any change from that place must be better, so I held up my head and hoped for the best.