It all happened after Missy and I arrived from San Francisco. I was taken to Hart’s (which, as you must know, is one of the most perfectly appointed boarding-places for horses in New York) and given a roomy box-stall toward the front of the stable. Across from me was another box, just as large and loose. In it was a stylish black gelding with docked tail and hogged mane. That was Thunderbolt. I was very car-stiff. For though I came by express on the same train with Missy, it had taken six days. My first day at Hart’s, as she was in my stall, petting me and giving me nice bites of carrot (it was a Wednesday, Wednesday being my day for carrots), a man came down the row of stalls with Martin, the head-groom. As he turned to open Thunderbolt’s box, he looked at me--or Missy--(his look was admiring, anyway) and raised his hat. That was Thunderbolt’s master. Missy bowed back, sweetly, but gravely, and went on feeding me. I did not know he was Thunderbolt’s master then. But later, before Peter, one of the under-grooms, took me out for an airing (I was not fit, Missy said, to be ridden--but I noticed Peter rode me when he got me out of sight of the stable), I nickered over to Thunderbolt to ask him who his visitor was. “That is my master,” said he, putting his head over the side of his box. “And he is one of the best masters I have ever had.” I gave a good horse laugh at that. “_One_ of the best,” I said. For I had never belonged to anyone but Missy, and _I_ think that a first-class animal doesn’t keep changing quarters. Thunderbolt put back his ears. “That is what I said,” he went on, “and I’m not going to turn a hair over it, either. A change of monogram can happen to _anybody_.” “Of course,” said I, taking particular pains to show mine. It was on my best dress-blanket, which Peter was putting on, and which was made to order for me in Missy’s father’s woolen mills. “But how did it happen that you--eh----” Thunderbolt’s eyes showed a rim of white--a bad-temper sign that no thoroughbred (and no part thoroughbred) allows himself to make. “‘You’re as silly as a filly,’” he quoted. “A horse may just be off his oats a little--that was my case--or home-sick.” “_I_ can understand _that_.” “Any crow-bait could. But now that I’m here----” “Lucky nag!” said I. “Bet your bridle!” returned Thunderbolt. “My master comes in with his pockets fairly sticking out with good things. Have you noticed?” “No, but I will,” I promised. And I did. The very next morning, here came Thunderbolt’s master again. I put my nose out when I saw him. He stopped and smoothed my neck. And, meanwhile, I found a pocket jammed with grass. As Thunderbolt saw the grass disappear, he laid back his ears. “The Dealers take you!” he grumbled. “Don’t get ugly,” I said. “I’ll divide my tidbits with you. To-day I’ll get an apple.” “How do you know?” he snorted. He was careful to appear on his best behaviour, however, for his master was looking at his hoofs.