Suddenly, there was a dull thud in the street. The horse had fallen
down. The driver ran to his head, but he was quite dead. "Thank God!"
said the poorly-dressed woman, bitterly; "one more out of this world of
misery." Then she turned and went down the street. I was glad for the
horse. He would never be frightened or miserable again, and I went
slowly on, thinking that death is the best thing that can happen to
tortured animals.
The Fairport hotel was built right in the centre of the town, and the
shops and houses crowded quite close about it. It was a high, brick
building, and it was called the Fairport House. As I was running along
the sidewalk, I heard some one speak to me, and looking up I saw Charlie
Montague. I had heard the Morrises say that his parents were staying at
the hotel for a few weeks, while their house was being repaired. He had
his Irish setter, Brisk, with him, and a handsome dog he was, as he
stood waving his silky tail in the sunlight. Charlie patted me, and then
he and his dog went into the hotel. I turned into the stable yard. It
was a small, choked-up place, and as I picked my way under the cabs and
wagons standing in the yard, I wondered why the hotel people didn't buy
some of the old houses near by, and tear them down, and make a stable
yard worthy of such a nice hotel.
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