I was sold at a fair to a London cabman named Jerry Barker for three pounds. Jerry had a wife and two children and a cab and one other horse, and he never worked on Sunday. He was the best master I had since John Manly. London was noise and stone and fog, and the work was hard, but Jerry never used the whip on me and never let a fare hurry me up a hill. One wet night I saw a thin grey mare fall between the shafts of an overloaded cart. It was Ginger. She had been driven until nothing was left of her, and she told me she wished she might die at her work. A week later a dead horse went past in a cart, and I hoped it was she. Then Jerry took a bad cough one New Year's night waiting outside a party, and he did not get up again for weeks.