There was a rough-coated lot in that yard, not society for a horse like me. Some were scrawny and spindle-shanked, with dull eyes and staring jackets. Some were stout and blocky--beer-jerking stock, but not nearly as well kept as brewery horses. Some showed pedigree. But these were poor, old, broken-down, mutilated things, badly used on pedler’s wagons. The three in my shanty bolted their food as if they never expected to get any more. It was all bloating stuff--chaff and straw--and about as palatable as hoof-dressing. As for grooming, none of us got any. It was just a jerk or two of the curry-comb, and it was over. And this among a long-haired lot that looked as if they had never known a blanket! I could see, when Missy came, that _she_ didn’t like the place. And on one of her visits I found out just how she felt. It made me decide to put my best foot foremost, to act spirited even if I didn’t feel like it, and to stop biting my crib. She came to my head, a sugar lump in one hand. And as I took the dainty, she held me about the withers with her pretty arms. “Oh, Hector! Hector!” she whispered. “You’re all that’s left. I can’t do without you--I can’t! I _can’t_!” _Dear_ Missy! We didn’t see Thunderbolt or his master for weeks after that. Missy avoided them. I knew it, and it added to my unhappiness. For I had seen how Mr. England liked me--and Missy, too. And I missed the nice things I always found in his pockets. And though I went out poorly groomed, I wouldn’t have minded Thunderbolt’s snorting. I’ve got better blood in me than he has any day. I know that by his cobby build. Those were days when I often felt teardrops on my withers. And I couldn’t help but see that Missy was faring no better than I. Then I began to look and look and _look_ for Mr. England. “Missy’s not getting all she needs to eat any more than I am,” I said to myself. And I was determined that if ever Mr. England gave me an apple or a sweet cake again, she was to have it. Well, one day as we were posting along close to the West Drive, who should I spy but Mr. England and Thunderbolt with the trap--Martin on the rumble. I whinnied, and Missy gave me a smart rap for it that made me fairly dance. But neither Martin nor Mr. England saw me. As for Thunderbolt, if he did, he gave no sign, but stepped out with his high knee-action, making a good pace uptown. It may have been acting like a skate. Certainly, I had never treated Missy that way before. But I decided to do it on the instant, and I took the blow she gave me as an excuse. For, with the bits held so that the curb-port couldn’t hurt me too much, I started to run with all my might, being careful not to stumble and make Missy come a cropper. Out upon the driveway I raced, and straight for Thunderbolt!