It was about ten o’clock, and the sun was shining brilliantly; everything was looking lovelier for the yesterday’s rain.  It is a pleasant thing on such a morning to walk along the well-rolled gravel on one’s way to the stables, meditating an excursion.  But the scent of the stables, which, in a natural state of things, ought to be among the soothing influences of a man’s life, always brought with it some irritation to Arthur.  There was no having his own way in the stables; everything was managed in the stingiest fashion.  His grandfather persisted in retaining as head groom an old dolt whom no sort of lever could move out of his old habits, and who was allowed to hire a succession of raw Loamshire lads as his subordinates, one of whom had lately tested a new pair of shears by clipping an oblong patch on Arthur’s bay mare.  This state of things is naturally embittering; one can put up with annoyances in the house, but to have the stable made a scene of vexation and disgust is a point beyond what human flesh and blood can be expected to endure long together without danger of misanthropy.

Old John’s wooden, deep-wrinkled face was the first object that met Arthur’s eyes as he entered the stable-yard, and it quite poisoned for him the bark of the two bloodhounds that kept watch there.  He could never speak quite patiently to the old blockhead.

“You must have Meg saddled for me and brought to the door at half-past eleven, and I shall want Rattler saddled for Pym at the same time.  Do you hear?”

“Yes, I hear, I hear, Cap’n,” said old John very deliberately, following the young master into the stable.  John considered a young master as the natural enemy of an old servant, and young people in general as a poor contrivance for carrying on the world.

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.