Read Online King of the Wind by Marguerite Henry - Free Book Online Page A

beheld the comfortable barn and the hillside pastures owned by Mister Coke, he was certain that the power of the wheat ear had spent itself.
    Jethro Coke’s wife was dead, and he had given the running of his household to Mistress Cockburn, a plump, motherly person who had eyes like black raisins and always a red spot on each cheek, as if she had just been bending over a hot fire.
    Mistress Cockburn not only found time to roast great haunches of mutton and stir up puddings and cakes, but she waited upon Mister Coke’s daughter and played nursemaid to her new baby. As for Benjamin Biggle, Mistress Cockburn set a place at table for him and nodded a stiff good morning to him with her starched cap. More than that she would not do.
    “Benjamin Biggle is a fat dolt!” she told Mister Coke on more than one occasion. And while Mister Coke was inclined, secretly, to agree with her, he tried to make the best of matters for his daughter’s sake. Besides, he was a birthright Quaker and he looked upon all God’s creatures as friends.
    “Benjamin,” he said to his son-in-law shortly after his return from Paris, “I’ve a surprise for thee. Follow me.”
    With an expectant gleam in his eye, Benjamin Biggle followed Mister Coke down the hill to the barn. There they looked in upon a busy scene. Agba, his hood thrown back, was dyeing the white tufts of hair that had grown in on Sham’s knees where he had cut them in the streets of Paris. Meanwhile Grimalkin was sitting on Sham’s back, polishing his own whiskers.
    “Good morning, friends,” the Quaker nodded in turn to Agba and Sham and Grimalkin.
    The sound of Mister Coke’s voice fell pleasantly upon Sham’s ears. And Agba’s hands, as they applied the dye made from rootlets, felt comforting to him. He stood so still he might have been a stuffed horse in a museum.
    “I bought this poor beast out of pity,” Mister Coke was saying to his son-in-law. “He appears to be gaunt and bowed by years and ill use, but with the good care of this devoted boy he will fill out and make thee a nice quiet pacer.”
    “Aye, Papa Coke,” replied Benjamin Biggle as he squared his hat over his small black wig. “Upwards of a year I have needed a horse and carriage.”
    The blood mounted in Mister Coke’s face. For a long moment he seemed unable to speak. Then he controlled his voice with effort. “A horse, aye,” he said, “but a carriage, no! A carriage is not necessary and therefore would be a vain adornment. Pride and conceit are against my principles.”
    “But, Papa Coke,” pleaded the son-in-law, biting his lip nervously, “I have never sat a horse!”
    “Pshaw and nonsense! I can assure thee that a child could sit this sedate mount. He is just the horse for a draper like thee. In my mind’s eye I can already see thee, traveling about the countryside, calling on housewives.”
    Benjamin Biggle’s face was growing as white as a mixing of dough. He took a sidelong glance at Sham, who returned the look with a warning movement of his ears.
    “It would seem best,” said Mister Coke as he lifted the pocket flap of his coat and took an almanack from his pocket, “it would seem best to wait until, say, Third Month, FourthDay. The almanack promises more settled weather then and the little cob should be ready for a gentle canter. Shall we say the forenoon of Third Month, Fourth Day, for thy first ride?”
    Benjamin Biggle sighed in relief. Third Month was a long time off. “Be it so, Papa Coke,” he said brightly. Then he squinted at the position of the sun. “Mistress Cockburn is probably buttering the scones for our tea. We would better go.”
    Agba watched the two men walk up the hill—the long strides of Mister Coke and the quick, rocking gait of Mister Biggle. Then he went back to work on Sham’s scars.
    With the coming of spring, Sham lost his starveling look. He began to appear the four-year-old that he really was. Once more his coat was burnished gold, with the course