'But this is only August!' said the farmer. 'With your light work and the good food, he shouldn't be like this. I don't know who eats your oats, my friend,' he went on, 'but I doubt that your horse gets any of them. I advise you to watch your groom more closely.'
Oh, how I wanted to speak! I wanted to tell my master where his oats went to. My groom came every morning at six o'clock, bringing his little boy with him. The boy carried a basket and went into the room where the oats were kept. I would see them filling a bag with oats and putting the bag into the basket.
Five or six mornings after the visit to the farmer, the boy left the stable with his basket of oats, but came back soon after, looking frightened, with two policemen holding his arms.
'Show me where your father keeps the food for his chickens,' one policeman said to the boy.