Jerry, too, was thrown, but was only bruised;
nobody could tell how he escaped; he always said 'twas a miracle. When
poor Captain was got up he was found to be very much cut and knocked
about. Jerry led him home gently, and a sad sight it was to see the
blood soaking into his white coat and dropping from his side and
shoulder. The drayman was proved to be very drunk, and was fined, and
the brewer had to pay damages to our master; but there was no one to pay
damages to poor Captain.
The farrier and Jerry did the best they could to ease his pain and make
him comfortable. The fly had to be mended, and for several days I did
not go out, and Jerry earned nothing. The first time we went to the
stand after the accident the governor came up to hear how Captain was.
"He'll never get over it," said Jerry, "at least not for my work, so the
farrier said this morning. He says he may do for carting, and that sort
of work. It has put me out very much. Carting, indeed! I've seen what
horses come to at that work round London. I only wish all the drunkards
could be put in a lunatic asylum instead of being allowed to run foul of
sober people. If they would break their own bones, and smash their own
carts, and lame their own horses, that would be their own affair, and
we might let them alone, but it seems to me that the innocent
always suffer; and then they talk about compensation! You can't make
compensation; there's all the trouble, and vexation, and loss of time,
besides losing a good horse that's like an old friend--it's nonsense
talking of compensation! If there's one devil that I should like to see
in the bottomless pit more than another, it's the drink devil.
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