He was weak in the knees, and weak in the back, and weak all over, and Jenkins had to beat him all the time, to make him go.

He had been a cab horse, and his mouth had been jerked, and twisted, and sawed at, till one would think there could be no feeling left in it; still I have seen him wince and curl up his lip when Jenkins thrust in the frosty bit on a winter's morning.
Poor old Toby! I used to lie on my straw some times and wonder he did not cry out with pain.

Cold and half starved he always was in the winter time, and often with raw sores on his body that Jenkins would try to hide by putting bits of cloth under the harness.

But Toby never murmured, and he never tried to kick and bite, and he minded the least word from Jenkins, and if he swore at him Toby would start back, or step up quickly, he was so anxious to please him.
After Jenkins put him in the cart, and took in the cans, he set out on his rounds.

My mother, whose name was Jess, always went with him.