The baker's foreman sold me to Nicholas Skinner, the owner of a large cab company. Skinner's company was like the one poor Ginger had worked for in her last days. He owned many cabs and horses, which he leased out to his drivers. He was hard on the men, and the men were hard on the horses. There were no Sundays off and no rest, even in the worst heat of summer.
My driver had a cruel whip with a sharp end that sometimes drew blood. When I didn't respond fast enough, he whipped me under the belly or on the head. It was terrible!
I'd always worked willingly for Jerry because he was a kind master. Now I worked because I had no other choice. It was a wretched life. I found myself thinking of poor Ginger and hoping, like her, to drop dead soon and escape my misery. One day that wish almost came to pass.
It was a very hot day. My driver and I reached the cab stand at eight in the morning. We were at work almost immediately, carrying several customers here and there. The last one needed to go to the train station.
After we dropped him off, we took our place at the end of the line of cabs, waiting for fares. A large train pulled in, and soon all the other cabs were taken. Finally it was our turn.
A family of four hurried toward us. There was a loud-voiced man, his wife, and their young son and daughter. They had lots of luggage, which the porters started loading onto the cab.
The little girl looked at me. "Papa, this poor horse looks so weak and worn-out! Do you think he'll be able to pull us and all of our luggage?"
"Don't worry, miss," my driver said. "He's strong enough."
"He does look tired," a porter said. "Maybe you should hire a second cab to take part of the load."
Once again my driver insisted that I could do it. When the little girl tried to protest, her father shushed her.
"Get into the cab, Grace," he said. "This driver knows his business better than we do. That's the last I want to hear about it."
The little girl had no choice but to obey. Soon all the luggage was loaded, and we set out.
I managed fairly well until we reached a hill. The load seemed to pull at me more than ever. I struggled on, doing my best as always. My driver urged me on with his voice and whip.
Suddenly my feet slipped out from under me. I fell to the ground, landing heavily on my side.
All I could do was lie there, my sides heaving while I struggled to breathe. Despite my driver's shouts, I couldn't even move. I thought this was it—now I was going to die.
"That poor horse!" I heard the little girl's voice cry out. "It's our fault."
Other louder voices quickly drowned her out. There was confusion all around me. Someone came and loosened my bridle and unfastened the harness.
"I think he's dead," someone said.
"No, he's still breathing, see?" someone else said.
I'm not sure how much time passed after that. Someone poured cold water on my head, and a blanket was laid over my body. After a while a kind-voiced man came and patted me and urged me to rise.
By then I was able to obey. It was a struggle, but finally I found myself back on my feet, trembling and weak. The kind man led me to a stable nearby, and the people there took care of me for the evening.
The next day I was strong enough for the walk back to my owner's stable. The owner and the vet came to see me.
"There's nothing really wrong with this horse," the vet told Skinner after he examined me. "He's just been overworked. If you give him six months off, he should be able to work again."
"I don't have time for that," Skinner said. "I guess he's no good for anything but dog food."
The vet shook his head. "He's not that far gone. Rest him and feed him well for ten days. Then you should be able to get something for him at the next horse sale."
Skinner decided to take the vet's advice. He ordered his men to take good care of me for the next ten days.
By the day of the horse sale I was feeling as if life might be worth living after all. So I held up my head and hoped for the best.