The Earl went abroad, and I was sold again, this time to a livery stable that let horses out by the day. Anybody with money could drive me, and some of them drove badly. The worst was a groom named Reuben Smith, who was a fine horseman when sober. One night he rode me home from town after drinking for hours. A shoe had come loose in the afternoon and he would not stop to have it set. We went at a gallop over a road mended with sharp new stones. The shoe came off, the hoof split, and I came down on my knees. Reuben was thrown and killed. I lay in the road until morning with the blood running. My knees healed badly and left two ugly scars, and after that no gentleman would buy me. A horse with broken knees is a horse with a bad name, whatever the truth is.