My new owner's name was Jerry Barker.
He rode me to a narrow street lined with shabby-looking houses on one side and modest stables on the other.
Stopping in front of one house, he whistled.
The door flew open, and Jerry's family rushed out.
His wife was a plump, pretty woman known as Polly.
Jerry also had a twelve-year-old son, Harry, and an eight-year-old daughter, Dolly.
All three of them were just as cheerful and kind as Jerry himself.
They were the most happy, loving family I'd ever seen.
Soon all four of them were standing around me in a small but clean stable.
"Is he gentle, Father?" Dolly asked.
"Yes, Dolly," Jerry told her. "He's as gentle as a kitten. Come and pat him."
While the little girl patted me, her mother hurried inside to make me a bran mash.
Jerry and his son lined my stall with soft straw, and soon I was comfortable and happy.
The family decided to call me Jack, after a fine old horse they'd once had.
There was one other horse in the stable.
He was a gray, large-boned animal who had a proud and handsome look, despite his great age.
His name was Captain, and he'd once been a war horse in the Crimean War.
As we got to know each other, Captain told me many stories about those days.
Some were fine tales about marching in formation with the other horses.
Others were terrible stories about seeing awful things during the fighting.
I soon learned that Jerry was a cab driver.
People hired him to drive them places in his cab, which was a boxy black carriage.
On my first day, Jerry took Captain out with the cab in the morning.
When they returned in the afternoon, it was my turn.
Jerry took his time putting on my harness, making sure it fit me as well as possible.
Even John Manly from Birtwick Park couldn't have been more careful!
Best of all, there was no checkrein and no harsh bit, so I was quite comfortable.
When I was hitched to the cab, Jerry drove me down the narrow street and out into a wider one.
We stopped at the cab stand, which was where all the taxicabs waited for customers on the street.
The block was lined with shops on one side and an old church and churchyard on the other.
There were several cabs lined up there already when we arrived, and all the drivers called or waved to Jerry.
A couple of the men came over to look at me.
"He's very nice-looking," one of them said.
"He's too nice-looking," another added.
"There must be something wrong with him. You'll find out one of these days."
"Perhaps," Jerry said with a chuckle.
"But until then, I won't waste time worrying about it."
Another man was approaching.
He had a broad, jolly face and a huge gray cape with a matching hat.
The other men made way for him as he came toward me.
I would later learn that he was known as the Governor.
He'd been working at the cab stand for longer than anyone else, and the others all respected his opinions a great deal.
The Governor looked me over carefully.
"He's the right type of horse for you, Jerry," he declared at last.
"I don't care what you paid for him. He'll be worth it."
And so my life as a London cab horse began.
For the first week, I found it difficult to get used to my new job.
The noise, the crowds, and the hurry made me feel anxious most of the time.
But I soon found that I could trust Jerry to help me through it.
He was as good a driver as I'd ever known, and paid as much attention to his horses' comfort as he did to his own.
He soon found out that I was always willing to work and do my best.
After that he never used the whip on me except to draw it gently across my back to ask me to move on.
Before long my master and I understood each other as well as horse and man can.
Jerry was good to us in the stable too.
Captain and I always had enough food and water.
Jerry took off our halters at night so we could move around our stalls at will.
But there was one thing Jerry did for us that was even better than the rest.
He always gave us Sundays off.
We worked so hard during the week that I was always glad when Sunday came.
Jerry believed a day off was necessary for man and animal, and he always lived as he believed.