Master Whitman had always made play and pleasure of training, and had never given True a task he could not perform. For this reason the horse accepted every order unhesitatingly, with the confidence of absolute trust. They had become so endeared to one another for these and sundry other causes that the idea of a parting was inexpressibly saddening to both. When, a half hour later, True was hitched to the “shay”--which he now pulled with such ease and pleasure--he fared forth, sad at heart, but eager and brisk in gait, as usual. The day had advanced and, as they travelled, the river glinted gold in the light which the morning sun threw over the fringe of trees along its banks. Very soon they arrived at the tavern where already several teams stood waiting. Throwing the reins loosely on the horse’s back--for he had been trained to stand without hitching--Silas Whitman sprang from the “shay” and entered the tavern. He was gone the best part of an hour, and when he returned he was not alone. A tall, slender stranger walked beside him, and as they drew near the colt perceived from the odor of this man that he was a pleasant-tempered person and friendly to animals. Indeed, True liked him at once, and ’twas well, for the pale, scholarly looking man whose name he would one day bear, was none other than _Justin Morgan_, who had once lived in Springfield, but had moved to Randolph, Vermont, in 1788, with his family. As Master Morgan pressed the muscles of the young horse the latter did not flinch nor draw away. Then the mouth had to be examined and the feet looked at, one by one. Questions had to be answered and other investigations made, common among men engaged in a horse deal. Master Whitman answered the questions, or stood in grave silence, his eyes moist with the tears he could not entirely hide, as his acquaintance considered True’s various traits. “Yes, sir,” the stranger finally said, “this colt, as you say, is free from natural blemish and is not disfigured by that cruel, prevailing practice of branding. He seems sound…. You say he is the son of De Lancey’s True Briton, and his mother a descendant of the Layton Barb?” “I repeat it,” replied Silas Whitman, “_these are the facts, to the best of my belief_.” He could scarcely trust himself to speak. “He is remarkably well ribbed-up and firm under the mane, for so young a horse,” said Master Morgan, “but he is small.” “He is not yet entirely developed,” was the answer. “You see, he is, as yet, scarce three years old. But he is a bit over fourteen hands, and weighs already upwards of nine hundred pounds. I told you he might be called a pony, except for his characteristics.”