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208 this weary life altogether. His master was in despair.

Hastily the local vet, old settler Snooks, was summoned. Travers attended too, out of sympathy. Snooks suggested bleeding, and terrified Tom by thrusting his arm half-a-yard down the patient creature's throat to administer a ball.

"I was relieved," explained Tom afterwards, "when I saw his hand reappear."

The next day the sad animal was worse. Some cruel wretch actually advised "another ball"—of lead this time, to "put him out of his misery." The hay, the oats, the green stuff, the bedding had all been duly examined. None could surmise the cause of the mysterious indisposition.

"What water do you give him? Let's have a look at that," said the leech in despair.

"Water! By Jove, I never thought of that!" exclaimed the amateur hostler. "Blowed if I gave him any!" speeding frantically for a bucket. "Poor brute, he's been nearly a week without a drop to drink! You see there's so much to think about in a stable."

"Slowly does it," counselled Mr. Snooks. "Another bucket in an hour, and he'll be all right."

"If you're thinking of riding across the continent, Tom," remarked Travers, "he'll be in fine form now. As good as a camel to bear you over the waterless desert."

The little man's troubles were not yet ended. The next afternoon Gwyneth met him, disconsolate, descending the hill towards the settlement. He was leading the unfortunate "Snowden," about whom harness was loosely hanging. The remains of a shaft balanced in the belly-band. At every other step the creature trod upon its breeching and trappings.