Chapter 12 A Thief.
My new master was very busy in his work and knew little about horses, so he rented a stable close to his home and hired a groomer named Filcher.
He ordered the best hay with plenty of oats, crushed beans, bran, and rye grass.
I heard my master give the order myself, so I knew I was well off For a few days all was well.
My groomer understood the horse business.
He kept the stable clean, he groomed me well, and he was gentle.
He used to work in a fine hotel in Bath.
He gave that up to grow fruits and vegetables to sell.
His wife raised chickens and rabbits.
But after a while, my food began running out.
I had the beans, but bran was mixed with them instead of oats, and even those servings were small.
In two or three weeks, my strength and mood were suffering.
Still, I ate what I was given, which was now grass, but I couldn't keep up my shiny coat without corn.
In about two months.
I thought for sure my master would notice how I looked.
But would he know?
The problems I had were from poor feeding.
One afternoon, my master rode me into the country to visit a farmer friend.
This gentleman had a good eye for horses and looked me over.
"'Seems to me, Barry, that your horse looked better when you first got him.
Has he been sick?'
No, said my master, but he is not nearly as lively as he was.
My groomer tells me that horses are always dull and weak in the autumn.
Fetal sticks, said the farmer.
This is only August.
What do you feed him?
My master told him.
The other man shook his head and began to feel me all over.
I don't know who's eating that corn berry, but your horse sure isn't getting it.
Have you ridden him hard?
No, very gently he said put your hand here, said the man, passing his hand over my neck and shoulder.
He's as warm and damp as a horse that eats only grass.
'I hate to think ill of anyone, but maybe your groomer is not doing his job?
There are mean scoundrels who would rob animals of their food.'
The farmer took me to have a good meal in his stable.
It was the best I had eaten in quite a while.
I wished I could tell my master where his oats were going.'
Every morning at about six o'clock, my groomer would come with a little boy who always carried a basket with him.
He would go into the back room where the corn was kept.
After he filled the bag, he would be off.
Five or six mornings later, just as the boy had left the stable, the door was pushed open and a policeman walked in, holding the child tightly by the arm.
Another policeman followed, locking the door on the inside, saying Show me the place where your father keeps his rabbit's food.
The boy began to cry and led the policeman to the corn bin.
Here the policeman found an empty bag like the one that was full of oats in the boy's basket.
I heard later on that Filcher went to jail for what he did.
It was hard for me to feel bad for him, though.
He wasn't an honest man.
A new groomer came within a few days.
His name was Alfred Smirk, and he stroked and petted me when my master was there to see it.
He brushed my mane and tail and shined my hooves with oil, but when it came to cleaning my feet, he treated me no better than a cow.
Alfred Smirk spent a good deal of time combing his hair in whiskers and fussing with his necktie.
Everyone thought he was such a kind man.
I say he was the laziest fellow I ever had the chance to meet.
He never cleaned all the straw out of my stall, and the strong smell made my eyes burn.
I never felt like eating my food.'
One day my master came and said, "'Alfred, the stable smells rather bad.
Can you give that stall a good scrub and use plenty of water?'
"'If you wish,' he said.
"'The horse may catch cold, but I'll do what you ask, sir.'
"'Well,' said my master, "'I don't like the smell of the stable.
There must be something wrong.'
Alfred replied, "'The drain sometimes smells bad.
There might be something wrong with it.'
"'I will call on the bricklayer and have him check it,' my master said.
But when the bricklayer came, he found nothing wrong with the drain.
The smell in my box was as bad as ever, and from standing on wet straw my feet got sore.'
My master used to say, I don't know what's the matter with this horse.
He doesn't walk well.
Yes, sir, said Alfred.
I've noticed the same thing when I exercise him.
But the truth is, I was hardly ever exercised.
When the master was busy, I often stood for days together without stretching my legs at all.
I started to grow fat.
I also got restless and feverish many days.
Alfred never gave me a dinner of green meal or bran mash, which would have cooled me.
Instead, I was given pills and mixtures that were poured down my throat.
All they did was make me feel ill and uncomfortable.
One day my feet were so tender that, while trotting over fresh stones with my master, I stumbled twice.
He was worried and took me to the vet, who looked at my feet one at a time.
"'Your horse has got the thrush.
I am sorry to say it's quite bad.
His feet are very tender.
You are lucky he hasn't fallen down when you were riding.
This is the kind of thing we find in dirty stables, where the stall hasn't been swept and fresh hay hasn't been put down'.
If you send your horse back tomorrow, I will work on his feet and I will teach your groomer how to apply liniment.
The next day my feet were washed well and soaked in strong lotion.
It was not pleasant.
The doctor told Alfred to clean out my stall each day and keep the floor very clean.
With this treatment, I soon got my lively spirits back.
But Mr. Berry was so disgusted with poor groomers that he decided to give me up.
So, once again, I was sold.
