John considered a young master as the natural enemy of an old servant, and young people in general as a poor contrivance for carrying on the world.
Arthur went in for the sake of patting Meg, declining as far as possible to see anything in the stables, lest he should lose his temper before breakfast.

The pretty creature was in one of the inner stables, and turned her mild head as her master came beside her.

Little Trot, a tiny spaniel, her inseparable companion in the stable, was comfortably curled up on her back.
"Well, Meg, my pretty girl," said Arthur, patting her neck, "we'll have a glorious canter this morning." "Nay, your honour, I donna see as that can be," said John.
"Not be?
Why not ?" "Why, she's got lamed." "Lamed, confound you! What do you mean ?" "Why, th' lad took her too close to Dalton's hosses, an' one on 'em flung out at her, an' she's got her shank bruised o' the near foreleg." The judicious historian abstains from narrating precisely what ensued.
You understand that there was a great deal of strong language, mingled with soothing "who-ho's" while the leg was examined; that John stood by with quite as much emotion as if he had been a cunningly carved crab-tree walking-stick, and that Arthur Donnithorne presently repassed the iron gates of the pleasure-ground without singing as he went.
He considered himself thoroughly disappointed and annoyed.

There was not another mount in the stable for himself and his servant besides Meg and Rattler.

It was vexatious; just when he wanted to get out of the way for a week or two.