"A
fine pair of horses, them two in the yard. Do you want to put 'em in my
stables?" I reply in the affirmative by a nod. The landlord, bent on
making himself agreeable to my wife, addresses her once more. "I'm a-going
to wake Francis Raven. He's an Independent Methodist. He was forty-five
year old last birthday. And he's my hostler. That's his story."
Having issued this second edition of his interesting narrative, the
landlord enters the stable. We follow him to see how he will wake Francis
Raven, and what will happen upon that. The stable broom stands in a
corner; the landlord takes it--advances toward the sleeping hostler--and
coolly stirs the man up with a broom as if he was a wild beast in a cage.
Francis Raven starts to his feet with a cry of terror--looks at us wildly,
with a horrid glare of suspicion in his eyes--recovers himself the next
moment--and suddenly changes into a decent, quiet, respectable
serving-man.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am. I beg your pardon, sir."
The tone and manner in which he makes his apologies are both above his
apparent station in life. I begin to catch the infection of Mrs.
Fairbank's interest in this man. We both follow him out into the yard to
see what he will do with the horses. The manner in which he lifts the
injured leg of the lame horse tells me at once that he understands his
business.
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