Arthur went in for the sake of patting Meg, declining as far as possible
to see anything in the stables, lest he should lose his temper before
breakfast. The pretty creature was in one of the inner stables, and
turned her mild head as her master came beside her. Little Trot, a tiny
spaniel, her inseparable companion in the stable, was comfortably curled
up on her back.
"Well, Meg, my pretty girl," said Arthur, patting her neck, "we'll have
a glorious canter this morning."
"Nay, your honour, I donna see as that can be," said John.
"Not be? Why not?"
"Why, she's got lamed."
"Lamed, confound you! What do you mean?"
"Why, th' lad took her too close to Dalton's hosses, an' one on 'em
flung out at her, an' she's got her shank bruised o' the near foreleg."
The judicious historian abstains from narrating precisely what ensued.
You understand that there was a great deal of strong language, mingled
with soothing "who-ho's" while the leg was examined; that John stood
by with quite as much emotion as if he had been a cunningly carved
crab-tree walking-stick, and that Arthur Donnithorne presently repassed
the iron gates of the pleasure-ground without singing as he went.
He considered himself thoroughly disappointed and annoyed.
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