I
•
i
JVIa^ari
et Cabell Self
^^^^""^
^ £d»im^emT^
UNIVERSITY
OF FLORIDA
LIBRARIES
Physical Education and Health
Reading Room
Gift of
Walter Lanier Barber
A Treasury of
HORSE STORIES
Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2011 with funding from
LYRASIS IVIembers and Sloan Foundation
http://www.archive.org/details/treasuryofhorsesself
A Treasury of
HORSE
STORIES
Selected and edited by
MARGARET CARET J- SELF
Illustrated by Edwin Megargee
•
A. S. BARNES c> COMPANY, NEW YORK
Copyright, 194^, by A. S. Barnes and Company, Inc. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America. The contents of this boo\ are
fully protected by copyright, and nothing that appears in it may be
reprinted or reproduced in any manner either wholly or in part, for any
use whatsoever including radio presentations, without special written
permission of the copyright owner. This boo\ has been manufactured
in full accordance with the regulations of the War Production Board.
Third Printing, January 1946
Preface
r.
read and own an anthology in any way
comprehensive on almost any subject is both interesting and entertaining, but
to compile one is an education. It is natural that people having one particular
hobby or sport should gravitate in their reading towards that sport, but they
read only for the enjoyment of the moment or for what they may learn, tech-
nically, from the text. Each story is accepted for itself alone, there is no com-
paring it with others of the same subject to see wherein it differs, if more
worthy or less so. However, when one starts in to survey as broad a field as this
subject of horselore, one which has been a favorite among writers from the
earliest times, one does so with the idea of analyzing, catalogueing, and select-
ing. It is manifestly impossible to include everything of merit that has ever
been written about horses, yet is necessary to present examples of the best type
of story in the various divisions of horselore. Not only must the stories have
literary value, but it is essential that all /{inds of horses from all \inds of
places and countries which are used for every purpose to which the horse has
been put, be included. Also the reader who lookj for old favorites, must not
be disappointed, A collection which gives only stories from a certaiti period or
of a certain general type is not really an anthology but merely a boo\ of short
stories all on the same subject. So one searches and reads and rereads, choosing
this and discarding that, pic\ing clean the \ernel of each tale, turning it over
and over, weighing each against its fellows. In doing so the compiler gains
tremendously in the \nowledge of what the writers and poets of note have
found to be inspirational; and one is sometimes surprised at what one finds.
It is natural, for example, that writers should thin\ all \inds of racing ft
material for dramatic stories. But why is there so little that is worthwhile
about the Arabian horse, one of the oldest of breeds and surely one of the
most romantic and colorful? Hunting stories are nearly all humorous, while
Ao hunting poetry tends to be dramatic or tragic. To go bac\ to the racing, be
y it flat, steeplechase or trotting, prose or poetry, from Ben Hur down, though
the prize may di-Qer, the background and characters vary, the formulae are
surprisingly similar. The hero-horse, jockey or driver, as the case may be,
always comes up fro?n behind at the last possible moment to win. If a mare
is rufjning, the favorite, foredoomed to defeat, is usually a stallion or at least
a gelding, if the hero is male the adversary is feminine. Nor must the winner
ever be touched with whip or spur whereas the poor challenger is usually
beaten until he bleeds! The one exception to the pattern, which after all is a
perfectly sound one from a dramatic point of view, seems to be that of John
Biggs Jr, who, in Corkran of Clamstretch has his horse lose the race and grow
in stature by so doing!
The circus horse, except in juvenile literature, is apparently among the
missing, yet what would be more colorful than a good circus story? There have
been fine tragedies written about the circus clown, Pagliacci for one, but
nothing adult that I have been able to find about the circus horse or his rider.
All horse stories might be roughly classified as follows: those which have to
do with the horse himself as a personality, i,e,, in which the reader identifies
himself with the horse and not with one of the human characters in the story;
and those in which the horse is the protagonist, and the red interest lies in the
situation, the development of the plot or in one of the human characters por-
trayed. By far the larger number of stories fall into the latter category, Anna
Sewell in Black Beauty [which is primarily a children's story and therefore not
suitable for inclusion in a wor\ of this sort] was among the first, exclusive of the
poets, who loo\ed on the horse as a creature with a personality worthy of devel-
opment. Other writers up until then might describe the outside of the animal,
particularly if it were humorous, but the horse was seldom the reed hero. Even
Surtees, whose name comes first to mind when one thin\s of riding and
hunting, said really very little about the horse himself.
It seems a little odd that this should be so when one remembers what a very
important element the horse was in everyday living until the automobile came
to usurp his place. Perhaps it was a case of familiarity breeding contempt, for
certainly there have been more writers interested in ma\ing the horse the real
hero of the tale since he became less common on the street.
No one of note seems to have written, except very briefly, about the horse
in war, although he was an exceedingly important lethal war-machine up until
World War 1 and still is valuable under certain circumstances and in certain
terrain. Poems to do with cavalry, such as the Charge of the Light Brigade have
not enough about the horses themselves in them to ma\e it desirable to include
them in an anthology of this sort,
Rudyard Kipling^s Maltese Cat is almost the only polo story to be found
though I am sure there must be others which I was unable to locate. The
American Saddler is sadly neglected as a breed perhaps because the show ring is
not nearly so popular with writers as either the hunt field or the race tracJ{.
There are many western stories, and stories of wild horses, but their plots and
characters are so much alike that one can include only a jew without fear of
repeating, nor are many of them noteworthy from a literary standpoint.
Furthermore writers of western stories seem to tend towards sentimentalizing
their horse-heroes; only too often they provide them with feelings and charac-
teristics that exist only in the author's mind.
In the following pages will be found stories or poems about thoroughbreds,
draft horses, light harness, standard breeds, ponies, high-school, cowponies,
wild range horses, flat racers, steeplechasers and trotters; horses that pull
hearses and one that pulls a Quaker to church. Some of the famous horses are
here, Pegasus and the centaurs among them. The mise en scenes include
various parts of the United States, England, Ireland, Mexico, Arabia, India,
Spain, Norway, Austria, Greece and the imaginary country of Gulliver. I
have tried to vary the mood from the hilarious to the dramatic, from the
wonder of a small boy who finds himself in control of a great team to the
star\ tragedy of another lad in the loss of his pony; and there is one good
murder story for addicts of that type of literature. In my opinion there is no
story or poem included which has not value as a piece of worthwhile writing
in itself and should therefore merit the attention of the reader whether or not
he is interested in horses,
I should li\e to than\ Ella H. Stevens, Matilda Z. Offen and Elizabeth
Raymond Scott, librarians, for their kindness in helping me search out many of
these stories. Had it not been for their help I would have been unable to run
to earth certain stories which I had read previously and of which I remembered
neither the exact title nor the author. I should also li\e to than\ Mavis Mcintosh
and Celia Krichmar (as well as my publishers) for so \indly securing the
permissions, and Laurice House for her careful reading and ch€c\ing of proof.
I hope that those whose favorites I have omitted will not be disappointed
and that this boo\ will be a source of pleasure to all who love good reading
and good horses.
Margaret Cabell Self
New Canaan, Connecticut
July, 1945
vn
Dedicated to My Father
Contents
I
Fantasy ijr Folklore
A Bedouin Conception of the Creation of A Horse 3
from DRINKERS OF THE WIND by Carl R. Raswan
In the Beginning 5
from THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE by G. K. Chesterton
The Chimaera 6
from A WONDER BOOK by Nathaniel Hawthorne
The Country of the Houyhnhnms 13
from GULUVERS TRAVELS by Jonathan Swift
The Horse Thief 15
from THE BURGLAR OF THE ZODIAC, AND OTHER POEMS
by William Rose Benet
Governor Manco and the Soldier 18
from THE ALHAMBRA by Washington Irving
Baron Munchausen Acquires A Horse 29
from THE TRAVELS OF BARON MUNCHAUSEN by Rudolf
Erich Raspe, edited by William Rose
Black Horses 32
from BETTER THINK TWICE ABOUT IT by Lmgi Pirandello
The Horse and his Rider 38
from AESOP'S FABLES edited by Willis Parser
Suppose * 39
by Walter de la Mare
The Bride of the Man-Horse 41
from THE BOOK OF WONDER by Lord Dunsany
The Stallion of Adonis 45
from VENUS AND ADONIS by William Shakespeare
ix
II
Hunting e!^ Polo
The Find 49
from REYNARD THE FOX by John Masefield
Philippa's Fox-Hunt 51
from SOME EXPERIENCES OF AN IRISH R.M, by Somerville
and Ross
Esme 63
from THE SHORT STORIES OF SAKI by H, H. Munro
John Peel 67
by John Woodcoc\ Graves
Cub Hunting en Famille 68
from THE SILVER HORN by Gordon Grand
Just Cause 73
from MR. AND MRS. CUGAT by Isabel Scott Roric\
Mr. Carteret and His Fellow Americans Abroad 86
from MR. CARTERET by David Gray
The Maltese Cat 95
from THE DAY'S WORK by Rudyard Kipling
The Ballad of the Foxhunter 108
from COLLECTED POEMS by William Butler Yeats
III
Three Famous Rides
Introduction
"How They Brought The Good News From Ghent To Aix'* iii
by Robert Browning
Paul Revere's Ride 113
by Henry W. Longfellow
The Diverting History of John Gilpin 115
by William Cowper
%
IV
Horse Trading
Introduction to Ideal Horse
The Ideal Horse
Anonymous i2t
William Sha\espeare — Venus and Adonis 122
]ohn ]orroc\s {Robert Smith Surtees) — Handley Cross jit,
David Harum's Balky Horse 125
from DAVID HARUM by Edward Noyes Westcott
The Parish of St. Thomas Equinus 134
from GALLOPS by David Gray
V
Races i^ Runaways
The Chariot Race 143
from BEN'HUR by Leu/ Wallace
Corkran of Clamstretch 149
by John Biggs, Jr. from SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE
How the Old Horse Won the Bet 161
by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Had A Horse 164
from CARAVAN by John Galsworthy
A Story of a Race in Revolutionary Times 179
from DRUMS by James Boyd
The Runav^ay 188
from COLLECTED POEMS by Robert Frost
The Turn of the Wheel 189
by Dorothea Donn Byrne
xi
A Trotting Race Near Leningrad 202
from FLATTERY'S FOAL (English edition TAGUONTS
GRANDSON) by Peter Alekjeevich Shiriaev
First Day Finish ^ 211
jrom THE FRIENDLY PERSUASION by Jessamyn West
A Rough Ride
from LORN A DOONE by R. D. Blac\more
The Finish
from RIGHT ROYAL by John Masefield
219
Tale of the Gypsy Horse 222
from DESTINY BAY by Donn Byrne
249
VI
Horses, Old e!^ Young,
Grave ^ Gay
The Artillery Horse's Prayer 253
by Captain de Coudenhove from THE FIELD ARTILLERY
JOURNAL
The Lady of Leisure 255
by Helen Dore Boylston from HARPER'S MAGAZINE,
October, 7932
Northwind 260
from THE WAY OF THE WILD by Herbert Ravenel Sass
The Horse of Hurricane Reef 273
from SHORT STORIES by Charles Tenney Jackson
First Money 285
from THE DRIFTING COWBOY by Will James
How Mr. Pickwick Undertook to Drive and Mr. Winkle to Ride 290
from THE PICKWICK PAPERS by Charles Dickens
Mr. Eglantine's Singular Animal 296
from THE RAVENSWING by William Makepeace Thackeray
xu
Concerning the Imperial Spanish Riding School in Vienna 302
from FLORIAN by Felix Saltcn
Horses — One Dash 306
from THE OPEN BOAT hy Stephen Crane
Poor Old Horse 315
jrom COME HITHER
Horses 316
by James Stevens from THE AMERICAN MERCURY
Loreine : A Horse 325
by Arthur Davison Fic{e from THE SATURDAY REVIEW OF
LITERATURE
Skobelef Was A Horse 326
by Johan Bojer from THE COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE
Blue Murder 332
from THE MAN WHO SAW THROUGH HEAVEN AND
OTHER STORIES by Wilbur Daniel Steele
The Gift 346
from THE RED PONY by John Steinbec\
A Horse's Epitaph 364
by Robert Lotve, Viscount Sherbrool^e
Index of Authors 365
Index of Titles 367
xiu
A cknowledgements
For permission to include copyright
passages in this volume, I wish to thank the
following publishers, authors, and agents:
Methuen and Company, Ltd., London, ex-
ecutrix, A. P. Watt and Son, London, and
DoDD, Mead and Company, New York for
four stanzas "In the Beginning" from
'The Ballad of the White Horse" from
Collected Poems of G. K. Chesterton
copyright 191 1, 1938)
Creatre Age Press, New York, for
excerpts including "A Bedouin Concep-
tion of the Creation of a Horse" from
Drin\ers of the Wind by Carl R. Ras-
wan (copyright, 1942)
Yale Unfvtersity Press, New Haven, for
"The Horse Thief" from The Burglar
of the Zodiac, and Other Poems by
William Rose Benet (copyright, 1918)
E. P. DuTTON AND CoMPANY, Ncw York,
and George Routledge and Sons, Ltd., Lon-
don, for
an excerpt, "Baron Munchausen Ac-
quires A Horse" from The Travels of
Baron Munchausen by Rudolf Erich
Raspe, edited by William Rose, pub-
lished in Broadway Translations
E. P. Dutton and Company, New York,
and John Lane, The Bodley Head, Ltd.,
London, for
an excerpt, "Black Horses" from Better
Thin\ Tti/ice About It by Luigi Piran-
dello, translated by Arthur and Henrie
Mayne (copyright, 1934)
Illustrated Editions Company, New York,
and Faber and Faber, Ltd., London, for
"The Horse and His Rider" from
Aesop's Fables edited by Willis Parker
(copyright, 1931)
Walter de la Mare, Leland Hayward,
Inc., New York, and Faber and Faber, Ltd.,
London, for
"Suppose"
John W. Luce and Company, Boston, for
"The Bride of the Man-Horse" from
The Boo\ of Wonder by Lord Dunsany
The Macmillan Company, New York, for
an excerpt, "The Find" from Reynard
the Fox by John Masefield (copyright,
I9i9> 1935)
Longmans, Green and Company, New
York, for
"Philippa's Fox-Hunt" from Some Ex-
XIV
Acknowledgements
periences of An Irish RM, by E. OE.
Somerville and Martin Ross (copyright,
1903)
The Viking Press, New York, and John
Lane, The Bodley Head, Ltd., London, for
"Esme" from The Short Stories of Sa\i
by H. H. Munro (copyright, 1930)
Gordon Grand, for
an excerpt, "Cub Hunting en Famille"
from The Silver Horn (copyright,
1932)
Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, for
"Just Cause" from Mr, and Mrs. Cugat
by Isabel Rorick (copyright, 1937, 1938,
1939, 1940)
D. Appleton-Century Company, Inc., for
"Mr. Carteret and His Fellow Ameri-
cans Abroad" from Mr. Carteret by
David Gray (copyright. The Century
Company, 1910)
Mrs. George Bambridge, A. P. Watt and
Son, London, Doubleday, Doran and Com-
pany, New York, and The Macmillan
Company of Canada, for
"The Maltese Cat" from The Day's
War\ by Rudyard Kipling
The Macmillan Company, New York, for
"The Ballad of the Foxhunter" from
Collected Poems by William Buder
Yeats (copyright, 1933)
D. Appleton-Century Company, Inc., New
York, for
an excerpt, "David Harum's Balky
Horse" from David Harum by Edward
Noyes Westcott (copyright, 1898), and
for "Parish of St. Thomas Equinus"
from Gallops by David Gray Ccopy-
right, The Century Company, 1897)
Charles Scribner's Sons, New York, for
"Corkran of Clamstrctch" by John
Biggs, Jr. (copyright, 1921) and for
"Had A Horse" from Caravan by John
Galsworthy (copyright, 1925), and for
an excerpt, "The Story of a Race in
Revolutionary Times" from Drums by
James Boyd (copyright, 1925)
Henry Holt and Company, Inc., New
York, for
"The Runaway" from Collected Poems
by Robert Frost (copyright, 1930)
LivERiGHT Publishing Corporation, New
York, for
"The Turn of the Wheel" by Dorothea
Donn Byrne
Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, and
Putnam & Company, Ltd., London, for
an excerpt, "A Trotting Race Near
Leningrad" from Flattery's Foal (Orig-
inal title translated from the Russian,
Taglioni's Grandson, English edition)
by Peter Alekseevich Shiriaev (copy-
right, 1937)
Harcourt, Brace and Company, New
York, for
"First Day Finish" appearing October,
1945, in The Frietidly Persuasion by
Jessamyn West
Liveright Publishing Corpor.\tion, New
York, for
"Tale of tlie Gypsy Horse" from Des-
tiny Bay by Donn Byrne
The Macmillan Company, New York, for
"The Finish" from Right Royal by
John Masefield (copyright, 1920)
XV
The Field Artillery Joirnal, for
The Artillery Horses Prayer by Cap-
tain dc Coudcnhove (copyright, 1919)
Ac\nou 'leJgements
Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, for
"Horses— One Dash" from The Open
Boat by Stephen Crane (copyright,
1898, 1899, 1926)
BiANDT & Brandt, New York, for
'The Lady of Leisure'^ by Helen Dore
Boylston (copyright, 1933, by Harper
AND Brothers)
Mlvton, Balch and Company, New York,
for
"Northwind" from The Way of the
Wild by Herbert Ravenel Sass (copy-
right, 1925)
Charles T. Jackson, for
'The Horse of Hurricane Reef" (copy-
right, September, 1922)
Charles Scribner's Sons, New York, for
an excerpt, "First Money" from The
Drifting Coivboy by Will James (copy-
right, 1925)
The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis,
for
an excerpt, "Concerning the Imperial
Spanish Riding School in Vienna" from
Florian by Felix Salten (copyright,
1934)
James Stevens for
"Horses" which first appeared in The
American Mercury magazine, April,
1926 (copyright, 1926)
The Saturday Review of Literature for
"Loreine: A Horse" by Arthur Davison
Ficke (copyright, 1926)
Curtis Brown, Ltd., London and New
York, for
"Skobolef Was A Horse" by Johan
Bojer, first printed in The Cosmopoli-
tan Magazine, 1921 (copyright, 1921,
International Magazine Company)
Wilbur Daniel Steele for
"Blue Murder" from The Man Who
Satv Through Heaven and Other
Stories^ Harper and Brothers (copy-
right, 1927)
The Viking Press, New York, for
"The Gift" from The Red Pony by
John Steinbeck (copyright, 1937, ^945)
XVI
I
Fantasy & Folklore
His screaming stallions
maned with whistling wind
ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH
A
.nd I turned and lifted up mine
eyes, and looked, and behold, there came four chariots from be-
ticeen two moiintains; and the mountains tvere mountains of brass.
In the first chariot xuere red horses; and in the second chariot
black horses.
And in the third chariot white horses; and in the fourth chariot
grisled and bay horses.
Then I ansivered and said unto the angel that talked to me^
What are these, m^y lord?
And the angel ansivered and said unto me. These are the four
spirits of the heavens which go forth from standing before the
Lord of all the earth.
— ^Zechariah 6
CARL R. RASWAN
A Bedouin Conception of the
Creation of a Horse
from DRINKERS OF THE WIND
Many early races have, in their fol\4ore, tales telling of how the horse
was created. I particularly liked the following, taJ^en from Carl Raswans
delightful hoo\, Drinkers of the Wind, because of its characteristically
"Eastern flavor and the real beauty of the description.
ccording to the story, the wilder-
ness of Arabia and the Arabic
language of the angels were
God's gift to Ishmael, son of Abraham and
the bondwoman of Egypt. Ishmael became
a herdsman and a hunter. He invented the
bow and arrow to kill the wolf, the panther,
and the antelope.
And Ishmael built an altar of acacia wood
to honor his Creator. With the feathers of
the black ostrich he decorated it, and he
named it the "Ark of the Desert"— the
throne of the Spirit of God.
It was in those days, Mnahi said, that
God asked Jibrail (the Angel Gabriel) to
lend one of his heavenly mounts to Ishmael.
The man of the wilderness was asleep in
the red sand desert when the Angel of the
Lord descended to his side. A wind whirled
toward him, scoring red sand with its feet,
scattering the dust with the blast of its
nostrils, screaming with ferocity. Jibrail
stayed the thundering cloud with his out-
stretched arm and grasped the fullness of
it with his hands The wild element
condensed in Jibrail's hand, and by the
majesty of the Living God emerged as the
steed of the desert — the Drinker of the
Wind.
Ishmael arose from sleep to behold, on
the crest of a red sand dune, an antelope
whose like he had never seen before. He
seized his bow to send the fatal arrow.
But Jibrail touched his arm and cried,
"Son of Abraham, this creature is a friend
of God. I have been sent to bring her to
thee because thou hast not defiled thyself
with pagan gods. The-one-like-a-she-
antelope shall be a mother of bountv^ and
blessings to thee, a destroyer of enemies,
a vessel of joy. Light as a panther will she
carry thee, and swift as a wolf. With cour-
age will she defend thee and protect thy
house. Harkening not to the deceit of the
Carl R. Raswan
flatterer, she will share thy simple fare
and dwell with thy children in the abode of
peace. She is of el-Quwad, of those who are
led and yet follow freely.
"And the antimony-painted one shall
have a raven-skinned son. Thou shalt find
no fault with him."
Jibrail laid his hand upon the neck of
the mare and brought her to Ishmael, say-
ing, "Grasp this strand of hair upon her
forehead; bless her in the name of diy
Creator." And Ishmael blessed the mare,
and the Angel vanished.
As Ishmael removed his hand from the
brow of the mare, she neighed and pressed
her muzzle to his cheek, and the son of the
desert knew that she had recognized him,
and that her soft voice was the voice of a
friend. She followed Ishmael to his tent,
and he remembered the words of the An-
gel and repeated them to his family.
Her features were not inferior in beauty
and intelligence to those of man, and
Ishmael said of her, "The Living God hath
truly given me an inheritance worthy of
my father Abraham. Indeed, the Kuhaylah
is a heavenly companion!"
The wild hunter and the antelope of the
desert became inseparable companions, and
Ishmael was called the intrepid Paris (rider
of the far as, or mare), the first horseman
among the children of men.
He would greet her with these words,
"Oh, thou antelope from the Nufud, my
future and weal are braided into thy love-
lock."
And he spoke thus of her to his neigh-
bors, "She whose uncloven hoof is like
onyx, whose skin is painted with antimony,
and whose hair is like unto a sun-ripened
date, may she scatter peace upon thee, that
fear shall conquer us no more."
Ishmael's friends addressed her, "Oh,
thou morning star, bright and lustrous,
about whom the flower of our youth
gathers!"
As the Angel had promised, the day
came when a fawn of the desert was born
to the Kuhaylah. To protect the foal on
his journey, the Ishmaelites placed him in a
large camel saddlebag of goathair. All day
the little colt was carried by the strong
camel, until Ishmael and his children struck
camp again.
But when they removed the foal from
the huge saddlebag, they found that his
spine had been injured and that he was
crippled.
Ishmael was about to kill him with a
quick blow, but again the Angel of the
Lord interfered, saying, "Must man for-
ever doubt the power of his Creator .f^ God
will make the despised Kuhaylat-el-A'hwaj
— the antimony-painted cripple — the one
most honored and noble among all."
The "cripple" became the foundation
sire of all true Arabian desert horses, the
sire of his mother's and sister's own chil-
dren.
"There is a truth to encourage all of us,''
Mnahi said to me, "God can use the de-
spised and broken bits of His creation to
glorify the work of His hands.
G. K. CHESTERTON (1874-1936)
In the Beginning
from THE BALLAD OF
THE WHITE HORSE
On the chalky cliffs of England is cut the gigantic figure of a white horse.
So long ago was the wor\ done that no one can trace its origin. Gilbert
Chesterton's famous The Ballad Of The White Horse, whose first four
verses follow, was inspired by this horse.
Before the gods that made the gods
Had seen their sunrise pass,
The White Horse of the White Horse Vale
Was cut out of the grass.
Before the gods that made the gods
Had drunk at dawn their fill,
The White Horse of the White Horse Vale
Was hoary on the hill.
Age beyond age on British land,
iEons on aeons gone,
Was peace and war in western hills,
And the White Horse looked on.
For the White Horse knew England
When there was none to know;
He saw the first oar break or bend.
He saw heaven fall and the world end,
O God, how long ago!
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE (1804-1864)
The Chiniaera
from A WONDER BOOK
In all the wide realm of fact and fiction surely there is no more glamor-
ous and soul-stirring a figure than that of the Winged Horse, What child
has not sat astride him in his dreams and hurdled the clouds? Surely
Hawthorne s beautiful description of how Vegasus was captured and
tamed by Bellerophon is, to all of us, the most familiar and the most loved.
nee, in the old, old times (for all
the strange things which I tell
you about happened long before
anybody can remember), a fountain gushed
out of a hill-side, in the marvellous land of
Greece. And, for aught I know, after so
many thousand years, it is still gushing
out of the very self-same spot. At any rate,
there was the pleasant fountain, welling
freshly forth and sparkling adown the hill-
side, in the golden sunset, when a hand-
some young man named Bellerophon drew
near its margin. In his hand he held a
bridle studded with brilliant gems, and
adorned with a golden bit. Seeing an old
man, and another of middle age, and a
little boy, near the fountain, and likewise
a maiden, who was dipping up some of
the water in a pitcher, he paused, and
begged that he might refresh himself with
a draught.
"This is very delicious water," he said
to the maiden as he rinsed and filled her
pitcher, after drinking out of it. "Will you
be kind enough to tell me whether the
fountain has a name.f^"
"Yes, it is called the Fountain of Pirene,"
answered the maiden; and then she added,
"My grandmother has told me that this
clear fountain was once a beautiful woman ;
and when her son was killed by the arrows
of the huntress Diana, she melted all away
into tears. And so the water, which you
find so cool and sweet, is the sorrow of that
poor mother's heart!"
"I should not have dreamed," observed
the young stranger, "that so clear a well-
spring, with its gush and gurgle, and its
cheery dance out of the shade into the
sunlight, had so much as one tear-drop in
its bosom! And this, then, is Pirene.? I
thank you, pretty maiden, for telling mc
A Wondc
its name. I have come from a far-away
country to find this very spot.
A middle-aged country fellow (he had
driven his cow to drink out of the spring)
stared hard at young Bellerophon, and at
the handsome bridle which he carried in
his hand.
"The water-courses must be getting low,
friend, in your part of the world," re-
marked he, "if you come so far only to
find the Fountain of Pirene. But, pray,
have you lost a horse? \ see you carry the
bridle in your hand; and a pretty one it is,
with that double row of bright stones
upon it. If the horse was as fine as the
bridle, you are much to be pitied for
losing him."
"I have lost no horse," said Bellerophon,
with a smile. "But I happen to be seeking a
very famous one, which, as wise people
have informed me, must be found here-
abouts, if anywhere. Do you know whether
the winged horse Pegasus still haunts the
Fountain of Pirene, as he used to do in your
forefather's day.f^"
But then the country fellow laughed.
Some of you, my little friends, have prob-
ably heard that this Pegasus was a snow-
white steed, with beautiful silvery wings,
who spent most of his time on the summit
of Mount Helicon. He was as wild, and as
swift, and as buoyant, in his flight through
the air, as any eagle that ever soared into
the clouds. There was nothing else like
him in the world. He had no mate; he
had never been backed or bridled by a
master; and for many a long year, he led
a solitary and a happy life.
Oh, how fine a thing it is to be a winged
horse! Sleeping at night, as he did, on a
lofty mountain-top, and passing the greater
part of the day in the air, Pegasus seemed
hardly to be a creature of the earth. When-
ever he was seen, up very high above peo-
ples' heads, with the sunshine on his silvery
wings, you would have thought that he
belonged to the sky, and that, skimming
a little too low, he had got astray among
our mists and vapors, and was seeking
his way back again. It was very pretty to
behold him plunge into the fleecy bosom
of a bright cloud, and be lost in it for
a moment or two, and then break forth
from the other side. Or, in a sullen rain-
storm, when there was a grey pavement
of clouds over the whole sky, it would
sometimes happen that the winged horse
descended right through it, and the glad
light of the upper region would gleam after
him. In another instant, it is true, both
Pegasus and the pleasant light would be
gone away together. But anyone that was
fortunate enough to see this wondrous
spectacle felt cheerful the whole day after-
wards, and as much longer as the storm
lasted.
In the summer-time, and in the beauti-
fullest of weather, Pegasus often alighted
on the solid earth, and, closing his silvery
wings, would gallop over hill and dale for
pastime, as fleetly as the wind. Cftener than
in any other place, he had been seen near
the Fountain of Pirene, drinking the de-
licious water, or rolling himself upon the
soft grass of the margin. Sometimes, too
(but Pegasus was very dainty in his food),
he would crop a few of the clover-blossoms
that happened to be sweetest.
To the Fountain of Pirene, therefore,
people's great-grandfathers had been in the
habit of going (as long as they were youth-
ful, and retained their faith in winged
horses), in hopes of getting a glimpse at
the beautiful Pegasus. But, of late years,
he had been very seldom seen. Indeed,
there were many of the country folks,
8 'Nathaniel Hawthorne
dwelling within half an hour's walk of the
fountain, who had never beheld Pegasus,
and did not believe that there was any
such creature in existence. The country
fellow to whom Bellerophon was speaking
chanced to be one of those incredulous
persons.
And that was the reason he laughed.
"Pegasus indeed!" cried he, turning up
his nose as high as such a flat nose could
be turned up, "Pegasus, indeed! A winged
horse, truly! Why, friend, are you in your
senses? Of what use would wings be to a
horse? Could he drag the plough so well,
think you? To be sure, there might be a
little saving in the expense of shoes; but
then, how would a man like to see his
horse flying out of the stable window? —
yes, or whisking him above the clouds,
when he only wanted to ride to mill? No,
no! I don't believe in Pegasus. There never
was such a ridiculous kind of a horse-fowl
made!"
"I have some reason to think otherwise,"
said Bellerophon, quietly.
And then he turned to the old, grey
man, who was leaning on a staff, and lis-
tening very attentively, with his head
stretched forward, and one hand at his ear,
because, for the last twenty years, he had
been getting rather deaf.
"And what do you say, venerable sir?"
inquired he. "In your younger days, I
should imagine, you must frequendy have
seen the winged steed!"
"Ah, young stranger, my memory is very
poor!" said the aged man. "When I was a
lad, if I remember rightly, I used to believe
there was such a horse, and so did every-
body else. But, nowadays, I hardly know
what to think, and very seldom think about
the winged horse at all. If I ever saw the
creature, it was a long, long while ago;
and to tell you the truth, I doubt whether
I ever did see him. One day, to be sure,
when I was quite a youth, I remember
seeing some hoof-tramps round about the
brink of the fountain. Pegasus might have
made those hoof -marks; and so might some
other horse."
"And have you never seen him, my fair
maiden?" asked Bellerophon of the girl,
who stood with the pitcher on her head,
while this talk went on. "You certainly
could see Pegasus, if anybody can, for your
eyes are very bright."
"Once I thought I saw him," replied the
maiden, with a smile and a blush. "It was
either Pegasus, or a large white bird, a
very great way up in the air. And one other
time, as I was coming to the fountain with
my pitcher, I heard a neigh. Oh, such a
brisk and melodious neigh as that was ! My
very heart leaped with delight at the sound.
But it startled me, nevertheless; so that I
ran home without filling my pitcher."
"That was truly a pity," said Bellero-
phon.
And he turned to the child, whom I men-
tioned at the beginning of the story, and
who was gazing at him, as children are
apt to gaze at strangers with his rosy
mouth wide open.
"Well, my little fellow," cried Bellero-
phon, playfully pulling one of his curls, "I
suppose you have often seen the winged
horse."
"That I have," answered the child, very
readily. "I saw him yesterday, and many
times before."
"You are a fine little man!" said Bellero-
phon, drawing the child closer to him.
"Come, tell me all about it."
"Why," replied the child, "I often come
here to sail little boats in the fountain, and
to gather pretty pebbles out of its basin. And
K'',"
I'm vU' ' ,
C^w** I ilei|*i acs
>^
A Wonder Boo\
sometimes, when I looked down into the
water, I see the image of the winged horse,
in the picture of the sky that is there. I
wish he would come down and take me
on his back, and let me ride him up to the
moon! But, if I so much as stir to look at
him, he flies far away out of sight."
And Bellerophon put Jiis faith in the
child, who had seen the image of Pegasus
in the water, and in the maiden who had
heard him neigh so melodiously, rather
than in the middle-aged clown, who be-
lieved only in cart-horses, or in the old
man who had forgotten the beautiful things
of his youth.
Therefore, he haunted about the Foun-
tain of Pirene for a great many days after-
wards. He kept continually on the watch,
looking upward at the sky, or else down
into the water, hoping for ever that he
should see either the reflected image of the
winged horse, or the marvellous reality.
He held the bridle, with its bright gems
and golden bit, always ready in his hand.
The rustic people, who dwelt in the neigh-
borhood, and drove their cattle to the foun-
tain to drink, would often laugh at poor
Bellerophon, and sometimes take him
pretty severely to task. They told him that
an ablebodied young man, like himself,
ought to have better business than to be
wasting his time in such idle pursuit. They
oflfered to sell him a horse, if he wanted
one; and when Bellerophon declined the
purchase, they tried to drive a bargain with
him for his iine bridle.
Even the country boys thought him so
very foolish that they used to have a great
deal of sport about him, and were rude
enough not to care a fig, although Bellero-
phon saw and heard it. One little urchin,
for example, would play Pegasus, and cut
the oddest imaginable capers, by way of
flying; while one of his schoolfellows would
scamper after him holding forth a twist of
bulrushes, which was intended to represent
Bellerophon 's ornamental bridle. But the
gentle child, who had seen the picture of
Pegasus in the water, comforted the young
stranger more than all the naughty boys
could torment him. The dear little fellow,
in his play-hours, often sat down beside
him, and, without speaking a word, would
look down into the fountain and up to-
wards the sky, with so innocent a faith,
that Bellerophon could not help feeling
encouraged.
§ § §
Well was it for Bellerophon that the
child had grown so fond of him, and was
never weary of keeping him company.
Every morning the child gave him a new
hope to put in his bosom, instead of yes-
terday's withered one.
"Dear Bellerophon," he would cry, look-
ing up hopefully into his face, "I think we
shall see Pegasus today!"
§ § §
One morning the child spoke to Bellero-
phon even more hopefully than usual.
"Dear, dear Bellerophon," cried he, '1
know not why it is, but I feel as if we
should certainly see Pegasus today!"
And all that day he would not stir a step
from Bellerophon's side; so they ate a
crust of bread together, and drank some
of the water of the fountain. In the after-
noon, there they sat, and Bellerophon had
thrown his arm around the cliild, who
likewise had put one of his Uttle hands into
Bellerophon's. The latter was lost in his
own thoughts, and was fixing his eyes va-
cantly on the trunks of the trees that over-
shadowed the fountain, and on the grape-
vines that clambered up among the
branches. But the gentle child was gazing
10
Nathaniel Hatithomc
down into the water; he was grieved, for
Bellerophon's sake, that the hope of an-
other dav should be deceived, Hke so manv
before it; and two or three quiet tear-drops
fell from his eyes, and mingled \snth what
were said to be the many tears of Pirene,
when she wept for her slain children.
But, when he least thought of it, Bellero-
phon felt the pressure of the child's Httle
hand, and heard a soft, almost breathless,
whisper.
"See there, dear Bellerophon, there is an
image in the water!"
The young man looked down into the
dimpling mirror of the fountain, and
saw what he took to be the reflection of a
bird which seemed to be flying at a great
height in the air, with a gleam of sunshine
on its snowy or silver}' wings.
'*^Vhat a splendid bird it must be!"' said
he. "And how ver}' large it looks, though
it must really be fl}*ing higher than the
clouds I''
"It makes me tremble!" whispered the
child. "I am afraid to look up into the air I It
is very beautiful, and yet I dare only look
at its image in the water. Dear Bellerophon,
do you not see that it is no bird : It is the
winged horse Pegasus!"
Bellerophon's heart began to throb! He
gazed keenly upward, but could not see
the winged creature, whether bird or horse ;
because, just then, it had plunged into the
fleec}' depths of a summer cloud. It was
but a moment, however, before the object
reappeared, sinking hghtly down out of the
cloud, although still at a vast distance from
the earth. Bellerophon caught the child in
his arms, and shrank back with him, so
that they were both hidden among the
thick shrubber}' which grew all around the
fountain. Not that he was afraid of any
harm, but he dreaded lest, if Pegasus
caught a glimpse of them, he would fly far
away, and alight in some inaccessible moun-
tain-top. For it really was the winged horse.
After they had expected him so long, he
was coming to quench his thirst with the
water of Pirene.
Nearer and nearer came die aerial won-
der, flying in great circles, as you may
have seen a dove when about to alight.
Downward came Pegasus, in those wide,
sweeping circles, which grew narrower, and
narrower stiU, as he gradually approached
the earth. The nigher the view of him, the
more beautiful he was, and the more mar-
vellous the sweep of his silvery wings. At
last, with so slight a pressure as hardly to
bend the grass about the fountain, or in-
print a hoof-tramp in the sand of its margin.
he aUghted. and, stooping his wild head,
began to drink. He drew in the water, with
long and pleasant sighs, and tranquil pauses
of enjoyment; and then another draught,
and another, and another. For, nowhere in
the world, or up among the clouds, did Pe-
gasus love any water as he loved this of
Pirene. ^-Vnd when his thirst was slaked, he
cropped a few of the honey-blossoms of the
clover, dehcately tasting them, but not
caring to make a hearty meal, because the
herbage, just beneath the clouds, on the
lofty sides of Mount Helicon, suited his
palate better than this ordinary grass.
After thus drinking to his heart's con-
tent, and in his damty fashion, condescend-
ing to take a Utde food, the v/inged horse
began to caper to and fro, and dance as it
were out, of mere idleness and sport. There
was never a more playful creature made
than this ver}' Pegasus. So there he frisked,
in a way that it delights me to think about,
fluttering his great wings as lightly as ever
did a linnet, and running litde races, half
on earth and half in air, and which I know
A Wonder Book^
II
not whether to call a flight or a gallop.
When a creature is perfectly able to fly,
he sometimes chooses to run, just for the
pastime of the thing; and so did Pegasus,
although it cost him some little trouble
to keep his hoofs so near the ground. Bel-
lerophon, meanwhile, holding the child's
hand, peeped forth from the shrubbery, and
thought that never was any sight so beauti-
ful as this, nor ever a horse's eyes so wild
and spirited as those of Pegasus. It seemed
a sin to think of bridling him and riding
on his back.
Once or twice, Pegasus stopped, and
snuffed the air, pricking up his ears, toss-
ing his head, and turning it on all sides, as
if he partly suspected some mischief or
other. Seeing nothing, however, and hear-
ing no sound, he soon began his antics
again.
At length, — not that he was weary, but
only idle and luxurious, — Pegasus folded his
wings, and lay down on the soft green turf.
But, being too full of aerial life to remain
quiet for many moments together, he soon
rolled over on his back, with his four slen-
der legs in the air. It was beautiful to see
him, this one solitary creature, whose mate
had never been created, but who needed
no companion, and, living a great many
hundred years, was as happy as the cen-
turies were long. The more he did such
things as mortal horses are accustomed to
do, the less earthly and the more wonderful
he seemed. Bellerophon and the child al-
most held their breath, partly from a de-
lightful awe, but still more because they
dreaded lest the slightest stir or murmur
should send him up, with the speed of an
arrow-flight, into the farthest blue of the
sky.
Finally, when he had had enough of
rolling over and over, Pegasus turned him-
self about, and, indolently, like any other
horse, put out his fore legs, in order to rise
from the ground; and Bellerophon, who
had guessed that he would do so, darted
suddenly from the thicket, and leaped
astride of his back.
Yes, there he sat, on the back of the
winged horse!
But what a bound did Pegasus make,
Vv'hcn, for the first time, he felt the weight
of a mortal man upon his loins! A bound,
indeed! Before he had time to draw a
breath, Bellerophone found himself five
hundred feet aloft, and still shooting up-
ward, while the winged horse snorted and
trembled with terror and anger. Upward
he went, up, up, up, until he plunged into
the cold misty bosom of a cloud, at which,
only a little while before, Bellerophon had
been gazing, and fancying it a very pleas-
ant spot. Then again, out of the heart of
the cloud, Pegasus shot down like a thun-
derbolt, as if he meant to dash both him-
self and his rider headlong against a rock.
Then he went through about a thousand
of the wildest caprioles that had ever been
performed either by a bird or a horse.
I cannot tell you half that he did. He
skimmed straight-forward, and sideways,
and backward. He reared himself erect,
with his fore legs on a wreath of mist and
his hind legs on nothing at all. He flung
his heels behind, and put down his head
between his legs, with his wings pointing
right upward. At about t\vo miles' height
above the earth, he turned a somerset, so
that Bellerophon's heels were where his
head should have been, and he seemed to
look down into the sky, instead of up. He
twisted his head about, and looking Bellero-
phon in the face, with iire flashing from
his eyes, made a terrible attempt to bite
him. He fluttered his pinions so wildly that
12
Nathaniel Hawthorne
one of the silver feathers was shaken out,
and, floating earthward, was picked up by
the child, who kept it as long as he lived,
in memory of Pegasus and Bellerophon.
But the latter (who, as you may judge,
was as good a horseman as ever galloped)
had been watching his opportunity, and at
last clapped the golden bit of the enchanted
bridle between die winged steed's jaws. No
sooner was this done, than Pegasus became
as manageable as if he had taken food all
his life out of Bellerophon's hand. To speak
what I really feel, it was almost a sadness
to see so wild a creature grow suddenly
so tame. And Pegasus seemed to feel it so,
likewise. He looked round to Bellerophon
with tears in his beautiful eyes instead of
the fire that so recently flashed from them.
But when Bellerophon patted his head, and
spoke a few authoritative, yet kind and
soothing words, another look came into the
eyes of Pegasus; for he was glad at heart,
after so many lonely centuries, to have
found a companion and a master.
Thus it always is with winged horses,
and with all such wild and solitary crea-
tures. If you can catch and overcome them,
it is the surest way to win their love.
JONATHAN SWIFT (1667-1745)
The Country of the Houyhnhnms
from GULLIVER'S TRAVELS
Most of US read GulHver's Travels as children, relishing the fantasy and
the adventure, not understanding the satire. The inhabitants of the land
of the Houyhnhnms represented our ideas of what horses might, in fact
should, be like. The mature reader realizes the satire intended and finds
the renewal of his acquaintance tvith the wise and gentle talkjng horses
a pleasure.
fter having travelled about three
miles, we came to a long kind of
building, made of timber stuck
in the ground, and v^attled across; the roof
v^as low, and covered with straw. I now
began to be a little comforted; and took
out some toys, which travellers usually carry
for presents to the savage Indians of Amer-
ica, and other parts, in hopes the people of
the house would be thereby encouraged to
receive me kindly. The horse made me a
sign to go in first; it was a large room with
a smooth clay floor, and a rack and manger,
extending the whole length of one side.
There were three nags and two mares,
not eating, but some of them sitting down
upon their hams, which I very much won-
dered at; but wondered more to see the rest
employed in domestic business ; these seemed
but ordinary cattle ; however, this confirmed
my first opinion, that a people who could
so far civilize brute animals must needs
excel in wisdom all the nations of the world.
The gray came in just after, and thereby
prevented any ill-treatment which the
others might have given me. He neighed
to them several times in a style of authority',
and received answers.
Beyond this room there were three others,
reaching the length of the house, to which
you passed through three doors, opposite to
each other, in the manner of a vista; we
went through the second room towards the
third. Here the gray walked in first, beck-
oning me to attend; I waited in the second
room, and got ready my presents for the
master and mistress of the house : they were
two knives, three bracelets of false pearls, a
small looking-glass, and a bead necklace.
The horse neighed three or four times, and
I waited to hear some answers in a human
voice, but I heard no other returns than in
13
i^ Jonathan
the same dialect, only one or two a little
shriller than his. I began to think that this
house must belong to some person of great
note among them, because tliere appeared
so much ceremony before I could gain ad-
mittance. But, that a man of quality should
be served all by horses was beyond my
comprehension: I feared my brain was dis-
turbed by my sujft'ering and misfortunes: I
roused myself, and looked about me in the
room where I was left alone: this was fur-
nished like the first, only after a more
elegant manner. I rubbed my eyes often,
but the same objects still occurred. I pinched
my arms and sides to awake myself, hop-
ing I might be in a dream. I then absolutely
concluded that all these appearances could
be nothing else but necromancy and magic.
But I had no time to pursue these reflections,
for the gray horse came to the door, and
made me a sign to follow him into the
third room, where I saw a very comely
mare, together with a colt and foal, sitting
on their haunches upon mats of straw, not
unartfully made, and perfectly neat and
clean.
The mare soon after my entrance rose
from her mat, and coming up close, after
having nicely observed my hands and face,
gave me a most contemptuous look, and
turning to the horse, I heard the word Yahoo
often repeated betwixt them; the meaning
of which I could not then comprehend; al-
Swijt
though it was the first I had learned to
pronounce; but I was soon better informed,
to my everlasting mortification; for the
horse beckoning to me with his head, and
repeating the hhuun, hhuun, as he did
upon the road, which I understood was to
attend him, led me out into a kind of court,
where was another building, at some dis-
tance from the house. Here we entered, and
I saw three of those detestable creatures,
which I first met after my landing, feeding
upon roots, and the flesh of some animals,
which I afterwards found to be that of
asses and dogs, and now and then a cow,
dead by accident or disease. They were all
tied by the neck with strong withes fastened
to a beam; they held their food between the
claws of their forefeet, and tore it with
their teeth.
The master horse ordered a sorrel nag,
one of his servants, to untie the largest of
these animals, and take him into the yard.
The beast and I were brought close together,
and our countenances diligently compared
both by master and servant, who thereupon
repeated several times the word Yahoo,
My horror and astonishment are not to be
described, when I observed, in this abomi-
nable animal, a perfect human figure:
the face of it indeed was flat and broad, the
nose depressed, the lips large, and the
mouth wide
WILLIAM ROSE BENET (1886- )
The Horse Thief
from THE BURGLAR OF THE
ZODIAC, AND OTHER POEMS
Not only the beauty of the images and the wonderful rolling rhythn hut
the unusual conception, tying the wild west with mythology, ma\es this
poem of William Rose Benet a masterpiece never to be forgotten.
There he moved, cropping the grass at the
purple canyon's hp.
His mane was mixed with the moonhght that
silvered his snow-white side,
For the moon sailed out of a cloud with the
wake of a spectral ship.
I crouched and I crawled on my belly, my
lariat coil looped wide.
Dimly and dark the mesas broke on the starry
sky.
A pall covered every color of their gorgeous
glory at noon.
I smelt the yucca and mesquite, and stifled my
heart's quick cry,
And wormed and crawled on my belly to
where he moved against the moon.
Some Moorish barb was that mustang's sire.
His lines were beyond all wonder.
From the prick of his ears to the flow of his
tail he ached in my throat and eyes.
Steel and velvet grace! As the prophet says,
God had "clothed his neck with thun-
der."
Oh, marvelous with the drifting cloud he
drifted across the skies!
And then I was near at hand — crouched, and
balanced, and cast the coil;
And the moon was smothered in cloud, and
the rope through my hands with a rip!
But somehow I gripped and clung, with the
blood in my brain a-boil —
With a turn round the rugged tree-stump
there on the purple canyon's lip.
Right into the stars he reared aloft, his red eve
rolling and raging.
He whirled and sunfished and lashed, and
rocked the earth to thunder and flame.
He squealed Hke a regular devil horse. I was
haggard and spent and aging-
Roped clean, but almost storming clear, his
fury too fierce to tame.
And I cursed myself for a tenderfoot, moon-
dazzled to play the part.
But I was doubly desperate then, with the
posse pulled out from town,
Or I'd never have tried it. I only knew I must
get a mount and a start.
The iilly had snapped her foreleg short. I
had had to shoot her down.
15
i6
William Rose Be net
So there he struggled and strangled, and I
snubbed him around a tree.
Nearer, a little nearer — hoofs planted, and
loUing tongue —
Till a sudden slack pitched me backward. He
reared right on top of me.
Mother of God — that moment! He missed
me . . . and up I swung.
Somehow, gone daft completely and clawing
a bunch of his mane.
As he stumbled and tripped in tlie lariat,
there I was — up and astride
And cursing for seven counties! And the mus-
tang? Just insane!
Crack-bang! went the rope; we cannoned off
the tree — then — ^gods, that ride!
A rocket — that's all, a rocket! I dug with my
teeth and nails.
Why, we never hit even the high spots
(though I hardly remember things),
But I heard a monstrous booming like a thun-
der of flapping sails
When he spread — well, call me a liar! —
when he spread those wings, those
wings!
So white that my eyes were blinded, thick-
feathered and wide unfurled,
They beat the air into billows. We sailed and
the earth was gone.
Canyon and desert and mesa withered below,
with the world.
And then I knew that mustang; for I — ^was
Bellerophon!
Yes, glad as the Greek, and mounted on a
horse of the elder gods.
With never a magic bridle or a fountain-
mirror nigh!
My chaps and spurs and holster must have
looked it! What's the odds?
I'd a leg over lightning and thunder, careering
across the sky!
And forever streaming before me, fanning my
forehead cool,
Flowed a mane of molten silver; and just
before my thighs
(As I gripped his velvet-muscled ribs, while
I cursed myself for a fool)
The steady pulse of those pinions— their
wonderful fall and rise!
The bandanna I bought in Bowie blew loose
and whipped from my neck.
My shirt was stuck to my shoulders and rib-
boning out behind.
The stars were dancing, wheeling and glan-
cing, dipping with smirk and beck.
The clouds were flowing, dusking and glow-
ing. We rode a roaring wind.
We soared through the silver starlight to
knock at the planets' gates.
New shimmering constellations came whirl-
ing into our ken.
Red stars and green and golden swung out of
the void that waits
For man's great last adventure; the Signs
took shape — and then
I knew the Hnes of that Centaur the moment
I saw him come!
The musical box of the heavens all around
us rolled to a tune
That tinkled and chimed and trilled with sil-
ver sounds that struck you dumb,
As if some archangel were grinding out the
music of the moon.
Melody-drunk on the Milky Way, as we swept
and soared hilarious,
Full in our pathway he stood — the Centaur
of the Stars,
Flashing from head and hoofs and breast! I
knew him for Sagittarius.
He reared, and bent and drew his bow. He
crouched as a boxer spars.
Flung back on his haunches, weird he loomed;
then leapt — and the dim void lightened^
Old White Wings shied and swerved aside,
and fled from the splendor-shod.
Through the flashing welter of worlds we
charged. I knew why my horse was
frightened.
He had two faces — a dog's and a man's —
that Babylonian god!
The Burglar
Also, he followed us real as fear. Ping I went an
arrow past.
My broncho buck-jumped, humping high.
We plunged ... I guess that's all!
I lay on the purple canyon's lip, when I opened
my eyes at last —
Stiff and sore and my head like a drum, but
I broke no bones in the fall.
So you know — and now you may string me
up. Such was the way you caught me.
Thank you for letting me tell it straight,
though you never could greatly care.
oj the y.odiac 17
For I took a horse that wasn't mine! . . . But
there's one the heavens brought me,
And I'll hang right happy, because I know
he is waiting for me up there.
From creamy muzzle to cannon-br^ne, by Grxl,
he's a peerless wonder!
He is steel and velvet and furnace-fire, and
death's supremest prize,
And never again shall be roped on earth that
neck that is "clothed in thunder". . .
String me up, Dave! Go dig my grave! /
rode him across the skjesl
WASHINGTON IRVING (1783-1859)
Go\ ernor Manco and the Soldier
from THE ALHAMBRA
The legend of a vast cave where \nights and their horses sleep, waiting
for the signal to awa\e and conquer the earth, crops up in the folJ^lore
of many lands. Washington Irving uses it here for a most amusing story
that will always be a living part of our literature.
'hen Governor Manco, or the
one-armed, kept up a show of
miHtary state in the Alham-
bra, he became nettled at the reproaches
continually cast upon his fortress of being
a nestling place of rogues and contra-
bandistas. On a sudden, the old potentate
determined on reform, and setting vigor-
ously to work, ejected whole nests of vaga-
bonds out of the fortress, and the gypsy
caves with which the surrounding hills are
honey-combed. He sent out soldiers, also,
to patrol the avenues and footpaths, with
orders to take up all suspicious persons.
One bright summer morning, a patrol
consisting of the testy old corporal who had
distinguished himself in the affair of the
notary, a trumpeter and two privates were
seated under the garden wall of the Gen-
eralifle, beside the road which leads down
from the mountain of the Sun, when they
heard the tramp of a horse, and a male
voice singing in rough, though not unmusi-
cal tones, an old Castilian campaigning
song.
Presently they beheld a sturdy, sun-burnt
fellow clad in the ragged garb of a foot-
soldier, leading a powerful Arabian horse
caparisoned in the ancient Morisco fashion.
Astonished at the sight of a strange sol-
dier, descending, steed in hand, from that
solitary mountain, the corporal stepped
forth and challenged him.
"Who goes there.?"
"A friend."
"Who, and what are you?"
"A poor soldier, just from the wars, with
a cracked crown and empty purse for a
reward."
By this time they were enabled to view
him more narrowly. He had a black patch
across his forehead, which, with a grizzled
beard, added to a certain dare-devil cast of
countenance, while a slight squint threw
i8
into the whole an occasional gleam of
roguish good-humor.
Having answered the questions of the
patrol, the soldier seemed to consider him-
self entitled to make others in return.
"May I ask," said he, "what city is this
which I see at the foot of the hill ?"
"What city!" cried the trumpeter; "come,
that's too bad. Here's a fellow lurking about
the mountain of the Sun, and demands the
name of the great city of Granada."
"Granada! Madre de Dios! can it be pos-
sible!"
"Perhaps not!" rejoined the trumpeter,
"and perhaps you have no idea that yon-
der are the towers of the Alhambra?"
"Son of a trumpet," replied the stranger,
"do not trifle with me; if this be indeed the
Alhambra, 1 have some strange matters to
reveal to the governor."
"You will have an opportunity," said
the corporal, "for we mean to take you
before him."
By this time the trumpeter had seized the
bridle of the steed, the two privates had
each secured an arm of the soldier, the cor-
poral put himself in front, gave the word,
"forward, march!" and away they marched
for the Alhambra.
The sight of a ragged foot-soldier and a
fine Arabian horse brought in captive by
the patrol, attracted the attention of all
the idlers of the fortress, and of those gossip
groups that generally assemble about wells
and fountains at early dawn. The wheel
of the cistern paused in its rotations; the
slipshod servant-maid stood gaping with
pitcher in hand, as the corporal passed by
with his prize. A motley train gradually
gathered in the rear of the escort. Know-
ing nods, and winks, and conjectures passed
from one to another. It is a deserter, said
one; a contrabandista, said another; a
The Alhambra 19
bandalcro, said a third, until it was affirmed
that a captain of a desperate band of rob-
bers had been captured by the prowess of
the corix)ral and his patrol. "Well, well,*'
said the old crones one to another, "captain
or not, let him get out of the grasp of old
Governor Manco if he can, though he is but
one-handed."
Governor Manco was seated in one of the
inner halls of the Alhambra, taking his
morning's cup of chocolate in company
with his confessor, a fat Franciscan friar
from the neighbouring convent. A demure,
dark-eyed damsel of Malaga, the daughter
of his housekeeper, was attending upon
him.
The world hinted that the damsel, who,
with all her demureness, was a sly, buxom
baggage, had found out a soft spot in the
iron heart of the old governor, and held
complete control over him, — but let that
pass; the domestic affairs of these mighty
potentates of the earth should not be too
narrowly scrutinized.
When word was brought that a suspi-
cious stranger had been taken lurking about
the fortress, and was actually in the outer
court, in durance of the corporal, waiting
the pleasure of his excellency, the pride
and stateliness of office swelled the bosom
of the governor. Giving back his chocolate
cup into the hands of the demure damsel,
he called for his basket-hiked sword, girded
it to his side, twirled up his mustachios,
took his seat in a large high-backed chair,
assumed a bitter and forbidding aspect, and
ordered the prisoner into his presence. The
soldier was brought in, still closely pinioned
by his captors, and guarded by the corporal.
He maintained, however, a resolute, self-
confident air, and returned the sharp, scruti-
nizing look of the governor with an easy
20
Washington Irving
squint, which by no means pleased the
punctiHous old potentate.
"Well, culprit!" said the governor, after
he had regarded him for a moment in si-
lence, "what have you to say for yourself?
who are you?"
"A soldier, just from the wars, who has
brought away nothing but scars and
bruises."
"A soldier? humph! a foot-soldier by
your garb. I understand you have a fine
Arabian horse. I presume you brought him
too from the wars, besides your scars and
bruises."
"May it please your excellency, I have
something strange to tell about that horse.
Indeed, I have one of the most wonderful
things to relate — something too that con-
cerns the security of this fortress, indeed,
of all Granada. But it is a matter to be
imparted only to your private ear, or in
presence of such only as are in your con-
fidence."
The governor considered for a moment,
and then directed the corporal and his
men to withdraw, but to post themselves
outside of the door, and be ready at call.
"This holy friar," said he, "is my confessor,
you may say anything in his presence — and
this damsel," nodding towards the hand-
maid, who had loitered with an air of great
curiosity, "this damsel is of great secrecy
and discretion, and to be trusted with any
thing."
The soldier gave a glance between a
squint and a leer at the demure hand-
maid. "I am perfectly willing," said he,
"that the damsel should remain."
When all the rest had withdrawn, the
soldier commenced his story. He was a
fluent, smooth-tongued varlet, and had a
command of language above his apparent
rank.
"May it please your excellency," said
he, "I am, as I before observed, a soldier,
and have seen some hard service, but
my term of enlistment being expired, I
was discharged not long since from the
army at Valladolid, and set out on foot
for my native village in Andalusia. Yes-
terday evening the sun went down as I
was traversing a great dry plain of old
Castile."
"Hold!" cried the governor, "what is this
you say? Old Castile is some two or three
hundred miles from this."
"Even so," replied the soldier, coolly,
"I told your excellency I had strange things
to relate — but not more strange than true —
as your excellency will find, if you will
deign me a patient hearing."
"Proceed, culprit," said the governor,
twirling up his mustachios.
"As the sun went down," continued the
soldier, "I cast my eyes about in search of
some quarters for the night, but far as my
sight could reach, there were no signs of
habitation. I saw that I should have to make
my bed on the naked plain, with my knap-
sack for a pillow; but your excellency is
an old soldier, and knows that to one who
has been in the wars, such a night's lodging
is no great hardship."
The governor nodded assent, as he drew
his pocket-handkerchief out of the basket-
hilt of his sword, to drive away a fly that
buzzed about his nose.
"Well, to make a long story short," con-
tinued the soldier, "I trudged forward for
several miles, until I came to a bridge over
a deep ravine, through which ran a little
thread of water, almost dried up by the
summer heat. At one end of the bridge
was a Moorish tower, the upper part all in
ruins, but a vault in the foundations quite
entire. Here, thinks I, is a good place to
The Al ham bra
21
make a halt. So I went down to the stream,
took a hearty drink, for the water was
pure and sweet, and I was parched with
thirst, then opening my wallet, I took out
an onion and a few crusts, which were all
my provisions, and seating myself on a stone
on the margin of the stream, began to
make my supper; intending afterwards to
quarter myself for the night in the vault
of the tower, and capital quarters they
would have been for a campaigner just
from the wars, as your excellency, who is
an old soldier, may suppose."
"I have put up gladly with worse in my
time," said the governor, returning his
pocket-handkerchief into the hilt of his
sword.
"While I was quietly crunching my
crust," pursued the soldier, "I heard some-
thing stir within the vault; I listened: it
was the tramp of a horse. By and by a man
came forth from a door in the foundation
of the tower, close by the water's edge, lead-
ing a powerful horse by the bridle. I could
not well make out what he was by the
starlight. It had a suspicious look to be
lurking among the ruins of a tower in that
wild solitary place. He might be a mere
wayfarer like myself; he might be a contra-
bandista; he might be a bandalero! What
of that, — thank heaven and my poverty, I
had nothing to lose, — so I sat still and
crunched my crusts.
"He led his horse to the water close by
where I was sitting, so that I had a fair
opportunity of reconnoitring him. To my
surprise, he was dressed in a Moorish garb,
with a cuirass of steel, and a polished skull-
cap, that I distinguished by the reflection
of the stars upon it. His horse, too, was
harnessed in the Morisco fashion, with
great shovel stirrups. He led him, as I
said, to the side of the stream, into which
the animal plunged his head almost to the
eyes, and drank until I thought he would
have burst.
"'Comrade,' said I, *your steed drinks
well: it's a good sign when a horse plunges
his muzzle bravely into the water.'
" *He may well drink,' said the stranger,
speaking with a Moorish accent; *it is a
good year since he had his last draught.'
" 'By Santiago,' said I, 'that beats even
the camels that I have seen in Africa. But
come, you seem to be something of a sol-
dier, won't you sit down, and take part of
a soldier's fare?' — In fact, I felt the want
of a companion in this lonely place, and
was willing to put up with an infidel. Be-
sides, as your excellency well knows, a
soldier is never very particular about the
faith of his company, and soldiers of all
countries are comrades on peaceable
ground."
The governor again nodded assent.
"Well, as I was saying, I invited him to
share my supper, such as it was, for I could
not do less in common hospitality.
" 1 have no time to pause for meat or
drink,' said he, 1 have a long journey to
make before morning.'
" *In which direction ?' said L
" 'Andalusia,' said he.
" 'Exactly my route,' said I. 'So as you
won't stop and eat with me, perhaps you'll
let me mount and ride with you. I see your
horse is of a powerful frame: I'll warrant
he'll carry double.'
" 'Agreed,' said the trooper ; and it would
not have been civil and soldierlike to re-
fuse, especially as I had offered to share
my supper with him. So up he mounted,
and up I mounted behind him.
" 'Hold fast,' said he, 'my steed goes
like the wind.'
22
Washington Irving
" *Never fear me/ said I, and so off we
set.
"From a walk the horse soon passed to a
trot, from a trot to a gallop, and from a gal-
lop to a harum-scarum scamper. It seemed
as if rocks, trees, houses, everything, flew
hurry-scurry behind us.
"'What town is this?' said I.
" 'Segovia,' said he; and before die words
were out of his mouth, the towers of
Segovia were out of sight. We swept up
the Guadarama mountains, and down by
the Escurial; and we skirted the walls of
Madrid, and we scoured away across the
plains of La Mancha. In this way we went
up hill and down dale, by towns and cities
all buried in deep sleep, and across moun-
tains, and plains, and rivers, just glimmer-
ing in the starlight.
"To make a long story short, and not to
fatigue your excellency, the trooper sud-
denly pulled up on the side of a mountain.
'Here we are,' said he, 'at the end of our
journey.'
"I looked about but could see no signs
of habitation: nothing but the mouth of a
cavern: while I looked, I saw multitudes of
people in Moorish dresses, some on horse-
back, some on foot, arriving as if borne by
the wind from all points of the compass,
and hurrying into the mouth of the cavern
like bees into a hive. Before I could ask a
question, the trooper struck his long Moor-
ish spurs into the horse's flanks, and dashed
in with the throng. We passed along a steep
winding way that descended into the very
bowels of the mountain. As we pushed on,
a light began to glimmer up by little and
little, like the first glimmerings of day, but
what caused it, I could not discover. It
grew stronger and stronger, and enabled
me to see everything around. I now noticed
as we passed along, great caverns opening
to the right and left, like halls in an arsenal.
In some there were shields, and helmets,
and cuirasses, and lances, and scimitars
hanging against the walls; in others, there
were great heaps of warlike munitions and
camp equipage lying upon the ground.
"It would have done your excellency's
heart good, being an old soldier, to have
seen such grand provision for war. Then
in other caverns there were long rows of
horsemen, armed to the teeth, with lances
raised and banners unfurled, all ready for
the field ; but they all sat motionless in their
saddles like so many statues. In other halls,
were warriors sleeping on the ground be-
side their horses, and foot soldiers in groups,
ready to fall into the ranks. All were in old-
fashioned Moorish dresses and armour.
"Well, your excellency, to cut a long
story short, we at length entered an im-
mense cavern, or I might say palace, of
grotto work, the walls of which seemed to
be veined with gold and silver, and to
sparkle with diamonds and sapphires, and
all kinds of precious stones. At the upper
end sat a Moorish king on a golden throne,
with his nobles on each side, and a guard
of African blacks with drawn scimitars.
All the crowd that continued to flock in,
and amounted to thousands and thousands,
passed one by one before his throne, each
paying homage as he passed. Some of the
multitude were dressed in magnificent
robes, without stain or blemish, and spar-
kling with jewels; others in burnished and
enamelled armour; while others were in
mouldered and mildewed garments, and in
armour all battered and dinted, and covered
with rust.
"I had hitherto held my tongue, for your
excellency well knows, it is not for a soldier
to ask many questions when on duty, but
I could keep silence no longer.
" Tr'ythec, comrade/ said I, Vhat is the
meaning of all this?*
" This/ said the trooper, *is a great and
powerful mystery. Know, O Christian, that
you see before you the court and army of
Boabdil, the last king of Granada/
"'What is this you tell me!* cried I.
*Boabdil and his court were exiled from
the land hundreds of years agone, and all
died in Africa.'
" 'So it is recorded in your lying chron-
icles,' replied the Moor, 'but know that
Boabdil and the warriors who made the
last struggle for Granada were all shut up
in this mountain by powerful enchantment.
As to the king and army that marched
forth from Granada at the time of the
surrender, they were a mere phantom train,
or spirits and demons permitted to assume
those shapes to deceive the Christian sov-
ereigns. And furthermore let me tell you,
friend, that all Spain is a country under
the power of enchantment. There is not a
mountain-cave, not a lonely watch-tower
in the plains, nor ruined castle on the hills,
but has some spell-bound warriors sleep-
ing from age to age within its vaults,
until the sins are expiated for which Allah
permitted the dominion to pass for a time
out of the hands of the faithful. Once every
year, on the eve of St. John, they are re-
leased from enchantment from sunset to
sunrise, and permitted to repair here to pay
homage to their sovereign; and the crowds
which you beheld swarming into the cav-
ern are Moslem warriors from their haunts
in all parts of Spain; for my own part, you
saw the ruined tower of the bridge in old
Castile, where I have now wintered and
summered for many hundred years, and
where I must be back again by day-break.
As to the battalions of horse and foot which
you beheld drawn up in array in the neigh-
Thc Alhambra 23
bouring caverns, they are the spell-bound
warriors of Granada. It is written in the
book of fate, that when the enchantment is
broken, Boabdil will descend from the
mountains at the head of this army, resume
his throne in the Alhambra and his sway
of Granada, and gathering together the
enchanted warriors from all parts of Spain,
will reconquer the peninsula, and restore it
to Moslem rule.'
*' 'And when shall this happen ?' said I.
" 'Allah alone knows. We had hoped the
day of deliverance was at hand; but there
reigns at present a vigilant governor in Al-
hambra, a staunch old soldier, the same
called Governor Manco; while such a war-
rior holds command of the very outpost,
and stands ready to check the first irruption
from the mountain, I fear Boabdil and his
soldiery must be content to rest upon their
arms.
Here the governor raised himself some-
what perpendicularly, adjusted his sword,
and twirled up his mustachios.
"To make a long story short, and not
fatigue your excellency, the trooper having
given me this account, dismounted from
his steed.
" 'Tarry here,' said he, 'and guard my
steed, while I go and bow the knee to
Boabdil.' So saying, he strode away among
the throng that pressed forward to the
throne.
"What's to be done? thought I, when
thus left to myself. Shall I wait here until
this infidel returns to whisk me off on his
goblin steed, die Lord knows where? or
shall I make the most of my time, and
beat a retreat from this hobgoblin commu-
nity? — A soldier's mind is soon made up,
as your excellency well knows. As to the
horse, he belonged to an avowxd enemy of
the faith and the realm, and w^as a fair
24
Washington Irving
prize according to the rules of war. So
hoisting myself from the crupper into the
saddle, I turned the reins, struck the Moor-
ish stirrups into the sides of the steed, and
put him to make the best of his way out
of the passage by which we had entered. As
we scoured by the halls where the Moslem
horsemen sat in motionless battalions, I
thought I heard the clang of armour, and a
hollow murmur of voices. I gave the steed
another taste of the stirrups, and doubled
my speed. There was now a sound behind
me like a rushing blast; I heard the clatter
of a thousand hoofs; a countless throng
overtook me; I was borne along in the
press, and hurled forth from the mouth of
the cavern, while thousands of shadowy
forms were swept off in every direction by
the four winds of heaven.
"In the whirl and confusion of the scene,
I was thrown from the saddle, and fell
senseless to the earth. When I came to my-
self I was lying on the brow of a hill, with
the Arabian steed standing beside me, for
in falling my arm had slipped within the
bridle, which, I presume, prevented his
whisking off to old Castile.
"Your excellency may easily judge of my
surprise on looking round, to behold hedges
of aloes and Indian iigs, and other proofs
of a southern climate, and see a great city
below me with towers and palaces, and a
grand cathedral. I descended the hill cau-
tiously, leading my steed, for I was afraid
to mount him again, lest he should play me
some slippery trick. As I descended, I met
with your patrol, who let me into the secret
that it was Granada that lay before me: and
that I was actually under the walls of the Al-
hambra, the fortress of the redoubted Gov-
ernor Manco, the terror of all enchanted
Moslems. When I heard this, I determined
at once to seek your excellency, to inform
you of all that I had seen, and to warn you
of the perils that surround and undermine
you, that you may take measures in time to
guard your fortress, and the kingdom it-
self, from this intestine army that lurks in
the very bowels of the land."
"And pr'ythee, friend, you who are a
veteran campaigner, and have seen so much
service," said the governor, "how would you
advise me to go about to prevent this evil ?''
"It is not for an humble private of the
ranks," said the soldier modestly, "to pre-
tend to instruct a commander of your ex-
cellency's sagacity; but it appears to me
that your excellency might cause all the
caves and entrances into the mountain to
be walled up with solid mason-work, so that
Boabdil and his army might be completely
corked up in their subterranean habitation.
If the good father too," added the soldier,
reverently bowing to the friar, and de-
voutly crossing himself, "would consecrate
the barricadoes with his blessing, and put
up a few crosses and reliques, and images of
saints, I think they might withstand all the
power of infidel enchantments."
"They doubtless would be of great avail,"
said the friar.
The governor now placed his arm
a-kimbo, with his hand resting on the hilt
of his toledo, fixed his eye upon the soldier,
and gently wagging his head from one side
to the other:
"So, friend," said he, "then you really
suppose I am to be gulled with this cock-
and-bull story about enchanted mountains,
and enchanted Moors. Hark ye, culprit! —
not another word. — ^An old soldier you
may be, but you'll find you have an old
soldier to deal with; and one not easily
outgeneralled. Ho! guard there! — ^put this
fellow in irons."
The demure handmaid would have put
The Alhambra
25
in a word in favour of the prisoner, but
the governor silenced her with a look.
As they were pinioning the soldier, one
of the guards felt something of bulk in his
pocket, and drawing it forth, found a long
leathern purse that appeared to be well
filled. Holding it by one corner, he turned
out the contents on the table before the
governor, and never did freebooter's bag
make more gorgeous delivery. Out tumbled
rings and jewels, and rosaries of pearls,
and sparkling diamond crosses, and a pro-
fusion of ancient golden coin, some of
which fell jingling to the floor, and rolled
away to the uttermost parts of the cham-
ber.
For a time the functions of justice were
suspended: there was a universal scramble
after the glittering fugitives. The governor
alone, who was imbued with true Spanish
pride, maintained his stately decorum,
though his eye betrayed a little anxiety
until the last coin and jewel was restored
to the sack.
The friar was not so calm; his whole face
glowed like a furnace, and his eyes
twinkled and flashed at sight of the rosaries
and crosses.
"Sacrilegious wretch that thou art," ex-
claimed he, "what church or sanctuary hast
thou been plundering of these sacred
reliques.f^"
"Neither one nor the other, holy father.
If they be sacrilegious spoils, they must
have been taken in times long past by the
iniidel trooper I have mentioned. I was
just going to tell his excellency, when he
interrupted me, that, on taking possession
of the trooper's horse, I unhooked a leath-
ern sack which hung at the saddle bow,
and which, I presume, contained the plun-
der of his campaignings in days of old,
when the Moors overran the country."
"Mighty well, — at present you will make
up your mind to take up your quarters
in a chamber of the Vermilion towers,
which, though not under a magic spell,
will hold you as safe as any cave of your
enchanted Moors."
"Your excellency will do as you think
proper," said the prisoner coolly. "I shall
be thankful to your excellency for any ac-
commodation in the fortress. A soldier who
has been in the wars, as your excellency
well knows, is not particular about his
lodgings; and provided I have a snug dun-
geon and regular rations, I shall manage
to make myself comfortable. I would only
entreat, that while your excellency is so
careful about me, you would have an eye
to your fortress, and think on the hint I
dropped about stopping up the entrances
to the mountain."
Here ended the scene. The prisoner was
conducted to a strong dungeon in the Ver-
milion towers, the Arabian steed was led
to his excellency's stable, and the trooper's
sack was deposited in his excellency's
strong box. To the latter, it is true, the friar
made some demur, questioning whether
the sacred reliques, which were evidently
sacrilegious spoils, should not be placed in
custody of the church; but as the governor
was peremptory on the subject, and was
absolute lord in the Alhambra, the friar
discreetly dropped the discussion, but de-
termined to convey intelligence of the fact
to the church dignitaries in Granada.
To explain these prompt and rigid meas-
ures on the part of old Governor Manco,
it is proper to observe, that about this time
the Alpuxarra mountains in the neighbor-
hood of Granada were terribly infected by
a gang of robbers, under the command of
a daring chief named Manuel Borasco,
who were accustomed to prowl about the
26
Washington Irving
country, and even to enter the city in vari-
ous disguises to gain intelligence of the
departure of convoys of merchandise, or
travellers with well-lined purses, whom
they rook care to waylay in distant and
solitary passes of their road. These repeated
and darincr outrages had awakened the at-
tcntion of government, and the com-
manders of the various posts had received
instructions to be on the alert, and to take
up all suspicious stragglers. Governor
Manco was particularly zealous, in conse-
quence of the various stigmas that had been
cast upon his fortress, and he now doubted
not that he had entrapped some formidable
desperado of this gang.
In the mean time the story took wind,
and became the talk not merely of the
fortress, but of the whole city of Granada.
It was said that the noted robber, Manuel
Borasco, the terror of the Alpuxarras, had
fallen into the clutches of old Governor
Manco, and been cooped up by him in a
dungeon of the Vermilion towers, and
every one who had been robbed by him
flocked to recognize the marauder. The
Vermilion towers, as is well known, stand
apart from the Alhambra, on a sister hill
separated from the main fortress by the
ravine, down which passes the main ave-
nue. There were no outer walls, but a senti-
nel patrolled before the tower. The window
of the chamber in which the soldier was
confined was strongly grated, and looked
upon a small esplanade. Here the good
folks of Granada repaired to gaze at him,
as they would at a laughing hyena grin-
ning through the cage of a menagerie. No-
body, however, recognized him for Manuel
Borasco, for that terrible robber was noted
for a ferocious physiognomy, and had by
no means the good-humored squint of the
prisoner. Visitors came not merely from
the city, but from all parts of the country,
but nobody knew him, and there began
to be doubts in the minds of the common
people, whether there might not be some
truth in his story. That Boabdil and his
army were shut up in the mountain, was
an old tradition which many of the ancient
inhabitants had heard from their fathers.
Numbers went up to the mountain of the
Sun, or rather of St. Elena, in search of
the cave mentioned by the soldier; and saw
and peeped into the deep dark pit, descend-
ing, no one knows how far, into the moun-
tain, and which remains there to this day,
the fabled entrance to the subterranean
abode of Boabdil.
By degrees, the soldier became popular
with the common people. A freebooter of
the mountains is by no means the oppro-
brious character in Spain that a robber is
in any other country; on the contrary, he
is a kind of chivalrous personage in the
eyes of the lower classes. There is always a
disposition, also, to cavil at the conduct of
those in command, and many began to
murmur at the high-handed measures of
old Governor Manco, and to look upon the
prisoner in the light of a martyr.
The soldier, moreover, was a merry,
waggish fellow, that had a joke for every
one who came near his window, and a soft
speech for every female. He had procured
an old guitar also, and would sit by his
window and sing ballads and love-ditties
to the delight of the women of the neigh-
bourhood, who would assemble on the es-
planade in the evenings, and dance boleros
to his music. Having trimmed off his rough
beard, his sunburnt face found favour in
the eyes of the fair, and the demure hand-
maid of the governor declared that his
squint was perfectly irresistible. This kind-
hearted damsel had, from the first, evinced
The Al ham bra
27
a deep sympathy in his fortunes, and hav-
ing in vain tried to mollify the governor,
had set to work privately to mitigate the
rigour of his dispensations. Every day she
brought the prisoner some crumbs of com-
fort w^hich had fallen from the governor's
table, or been abstracted from his larder,
together v^ith, now and then, a consoling
bottle of choice Val de Penas, or rich
Malaga.
While this petty treason was going on
in the very centre of the old governor's
citadel, a storm of open war was brewing
up among his external foes. The circum-
stance of a bag of gold and jewels having
been found upon the person of the sup-
posed robber, had been reported with
many exaggerations in Granada. A question
of territorial jurisdiction was immediately
started by the governor's inveterate rival,
the captain-general. He insisted that the
prisoner had been captured v/ithout the
precincts of the Alhambra, and within the
rules- of his authority. He demanded his
body, therefore, and the spolia opima taken
with him. Due information having been
carried likewise by the friar to the grand
Inquisitor, of the crosses, and the rosaries,
and other reliques contained in the bag, he
claimed the culprit, as having been guilty
of sacrilege, and insisted that his plunder
was due to the church, and his body to the
next Auto da Fe. The feuds ran high; the
governor was furious, and swore, rather
than surrender his captive, he would hang
him up within the Alhambra, as a spy
caught within the purlieus of the fortress.
The captain-general direatened to send
a body of soldiers to transfer the prisoner
from the Vermilion towers to the city. The
grand Inquisitor was equally bent upon
despatching a number of the familiars of
the holy office. Word was brought late at
night to the governor, of these machina-
tions. "Let them come," said he, "they'll
find me beforehand with them. He must
rise bright and early who would take in
an old soldier." He accordingly issued or-
ders to have the prisoner removed at day-
break to the Donjon Keep within the walls
of the Alhambra: "And d'ye hear, child,"
said he to his demure handmaid, "tap at my
door, and wake me before cock-crowing,
that I may see to the matter myself.'*
The day dawned, the cock crowed, but
nobody tapped at the door of the governor.
The sun rose high above the mountain-
tops, and glittered in at his casement ere
the governor was awakened from his
morning dreams by his veteran corporal,
who stood before him with terror stamped
upon his iron visage.
"He's off! he's gone!" cried the corporal,
gasping for breath.
"Who's off? — who's gone?"
"The soldier — the robber — the devil, for
aught I know. His dungeon is empty, but
the door locked. No one knows how he
has escaped out of it."
"Who saw him last?"
"Your handmaid, — she brought him his
supper."
"Let her be called instantly."
Here was new matter of confusion. The
chamber of the demure damsel w^as like-
wise empty; her bed had not been slept in;
she had doubtless gone off with the culprit,
as she had appeared, for some days past,
to have frequent conversations with him.
This was wounding the old governor in
a tender part, but he had scarce time to
wince at it, when new misfortunes broke
upon his view. On going into his cabinet,
he found his strong box open, the leathern
28
Washington Irving
purse of the trooper extracted, and with it
a couple of corpulent bags of doubloons.
But how, and which way had the fugi-
tives escaped? A peasant who lived in a
cottage by the road-side leading up into
the Sierra, declared that he had heard the
tramp of a powerful steed, just before day-
break, passing up into the mountains. He
had looked out at his casement, and could
just distinguish a horseman, with a female
seated before him.
"Search the stables," cried Governor
Manco. The stables were searched; all the
horses were in their stalls, excepting the
Arabian steed. In his place was a stout
cudgel tied to the manger, and on it a
label bearing these words, "A gift to Gov-
ernor Manco, from an old soldier."
RUDOLPH ERICK RASPE (1737-1794)
(Edited by William Rose)
Baron Munchausen Acquires a Horse
frmt THE TRAVELS
OF BARON MUNCHAUSEN
Baron Munchausen and his horse may have been superseded in late
years by Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, but he will never die in the hearts
of those of us to whom he was a familiar character in our days of growing
up. Notice how the good Baron first performs feats, incredible to one who
knows horses, but perhaps possible to the tyro, then goes on, when he
has gotten his reader's confidence and interest, to the completely ludicrous.
I was at Count Przobossky's noble
country-seat in Lithuania, and re-
mained with the ladies at tea in the
drawing-room, while the gentlemen were
down in the yard, to see a young horse of
blood which had just arrived from the stud.
We suddenly heard a noise of distress; I
hastened down-stairs, and found the horse
so unruly, that nobody durst approach or
mount him. The most resolute horsemen
stood dismayed and aghast; despondency
was expressed in every countenance, when,
in one leap, I was on his back, took him by
surprise, and worked him quite into gentle-
ness and obedience, with the best display
of horsemanship I was master of. Fully to
show this to the ladies, and save them un-
necessary trouble, I forced him to leap in
at one of the open windows of the tea-
room, walked round several times, pace.
trot and gallop, and at last made him
mount the tea-table, there to repeat his les-
sons, in a pretty style of miniature — which
was exceedingly pleasing to the ladies, for
he performed them amazingly well, and
did not break either cup or saucer. It
placed me so high in their opinion, and so
well in that of the noble lord, that, with
his usual politeness, he begged I would
accept of this young horse, and ride him
full career to conquest and honor in the
campaign against the Turks, which was
soon to be opened, under tlie command of
Count Munich.
I could not indeed have received a more
agreeable present, nor a more ominous
one at the opening of that campaign, in
which I made my apprenticeship as a sol-
dier. A horse so gende, so spirited, and so
fierce — at once a lamb and a Bucephalus —
29
^0 Rudolph
put me always in mind of the soldier's
and the gentleman's duty! of young Alex-
ander, and of the astonishing things he
performed in the field.
We took the field, among several other
reasons, it seems, with an intention to re-
trieve the character of the Russian arms,
which had been blemished a little by Czar
Peter's last campaign on the Pruth; and
this we fully accomplished by several very
fatiguing and glorious campaigns under
the command of that great general I men-
tioned before.
Modesty forbids individuals to arrogate
to themselves great successes or victories,
the glory of which is generally engrossed by
the commander, nay, which is rather awk-
ward, by kings and queens who never
smelt gunpowder but at the field-days and
reviews of their troops; never saw a field of
battle, or an enemy in battle array.
Nor do I claim any particular share of
glory in the great engagements with the
enemy. — We all did our duty, which, in the
patriot's, soldier's, and gentleman's lan-
guage, is a very comprehensive word, of
great honor, meaning, and import, and of
which the generality of idle quidnuncs and
coffee-house politicians can hardly form
any but a very mean and contemptible idea.
However, having had the command of a
body of hussars, I went upon several expedi-
tions, with discretionary powers; and the
success I then met with is, I think, fairly and
only to be placed to my account, and to that
of the brave fellows whom I led on to con-
quest and to victory. We had very hot work
once in the van of the army, when we
drove the Turks into Oczakow. My spirited
Lithuanian had almost brought me into a
scrape: I had an advanced fore-post, and
saw the enemy coming against me in a
cloud of dust, which left me rather uncer-
Eric}{ Raspe
tain about their actual numbers and real
intentions; to wrap myself up in a similar
cloud was common prudence, but would
not have much advanced my knowledge, or
answered the end for which I had been
sent out; therefore I let my flankers on
both wings spread to the right and left,
and make what dust they could, and I my-
self led on straight upon the enemy, to
have a nearer sight of them; in this I was
gratified, for they stood and fought, till, for
fear of my flankers, they began to move
off rather disorderly. This was the moment
to fall upon them with spirit; — ^we broke
them entirely — made a terrible havoc
amongst them and drove them not only
back to a walled town in their rear, but
even through it, contrary to our most san-
guine expectation.
The swiftness of my Lithuanian enabled
me to be foremost in the pursuit; and see-
ing the enemy fairly flying through the op-
posite gate, I thought it would be prudent
to stop in the market-place, to order the men
to rendezvous. I stopped, gentlemen; but
judge of my astonishment when in this
market-place I saw not one of my hussars
about me! Are they scouring the other
streets.? or what is become of them? They
could not be far off, and must, at all events,
soon join me. In that expectation I walked
my panting Lithuanian to a spring in this
market-place, and let him drink. He drank
uncommonly, with an eagerness not to be
satisfied, but natural enough, for when I
looked round for my men, what should I
see, gentlemen — the hind part of the poor
creature, croup and legs, were missing, as
if he had been cut in two, and the water
ran out as it came in, without refreshing
or doing him any good! How it could
have happened was quite a mystery to me,
till I returned with him to the town-gate.
The Travels of
There I saw, that when 1 rushed in pell-
mell with the flying enemy, they had
dropped the portcullis (a heavy falling
door, with sharp spikes at the bottom, let
down suddenly to prevent the entrance of
an enemy into a fortified town) unper-
ceived by me, which had totally cut off his
hind part, that still lay quivering on the
outside of the gate. It would have been an
irreparable loss, had not our farrier con-
Baron Munchausen
31
trivcd to bring both parts together while
hot. He sewed them up with sprigs and
young shoots of laurels that were at hand.
The wound healed; and, what could not
have happened but to so glorious a horse,
the sprigs took root in his body, grew up
and formed a bower over mc; so that after-
wards I could go upon many other expedi-
tions in the shade of my own and my
horses's laurels.
LUIGI PIRANDELLO (1867-1936)
Black Horses
jrom BETTER THINK TWICE ABOUT IT
The unusual subject of this story would be sufficient reason for including
it ifi this anthology and its writing makes it doubly desirable, but it is not
until the very last paragraph that one realizes the theme of the story.
^ o sooner had the head-groom
left, cursing even louder than
usual, than Fofo turned to the
new arrival — his stable companion, Nero —
and remarked with a sigh: —
"I've got the hang of it! Velvets, tassels
and plumes. You're starting well, old fel-
low. Today's a first-class job."
Nero turned his head away. Being a
well-bred horse, he did not snort, but he
had no wish to become too intimate with
that Fofo.
He had come there from a princely
stable — a stable where one saw one's reflec-
tion in the polished walls, where the stalls
were separated by leather-padded parti-
tions, and each had a hay-rack made of
beech-wood, rings of gun-metal, and posts
with bright shining nobs on top of them.
But alas! the young prince was mad on
those noisy carriages, foul things which
belch out smoke behind and run along of
themselves. Three tim^s he had nearly
broken his neck in one of them. The old
princess — the dear lady — would never have
anything to do with those devil-carriages;
but, as soon as she was struck down by
paralysis, the prince had hastened to dis-
pose of both Nero and Corbino — the last
remnants of the stable, hitherto retained to
take the mother out for a quiet drive in her
landau.
Poor Corbino! Who could tell where he
had gone to end his days, after long years
of dignified service.?
Giuseppe, the good old coachman, had
promised them that when he went with
the otlier faithful old retainers to kiss the
hand of the princess — ^now restricted per-
manently to her arm-chair — ^he would inter-
cede for them. But it was of no avail: from
the way the old man had stroked their
necks and flanks, on his return soon after-
wards, they both understood at once that
all hope was lost, that their fate was
settled — they were to be sold.
32
Better Thinl^^
And so it had come about and Nero did
not yet grasp what kind of a place he had
found. Bad? — no, one couldn't say that it
was really bad. Of course, it was not like
the princess' stable. Yet this stable also was
a good one. It had more than a score of
horses, all black and all rather old, but
fine-looking animals, dignified and quite
sedate — for that matter, rather too sedate.
Nero doubted whether his companions
had any clear idea as to the work on which
they were engaged. They seemed to be con-
stantly pondering over it without ever be-
ing able to come to any conclusion: the
slow swish of their bushy tails, with an oc-
casional scraping of hoofs showed clearly
that they were engaged in thinking deeply
over something.
Fofo was the only one who was certain
— a good deal too certain — that he knew all
about it.
A common, presumptuous animal!
Once a regimental charger, cast out
after three years' service, because — accord-
ing to his own story — a brute of a cavalry-
man from the Abruzzi had broken his
wind, he spent his whole time talking and
gossiping. Nero, who was still very sad at
the parting from his old friend Corbino,
could not stand his new acquaintance,
whose confidential manner and habit of
making nasty remarks about his stable
companions jarred upon him horribly.
Heavens! what a tongue he had! Not
one of the twenty escaped from it — there
was always some fault to find.
"Look at his tail, do look! Fancy calling
that a tail! And what a way to swish it!
He thinks that's very dashing, you know.
I don't mind betting he's been a doctor's
horse.
"And just look over there at that Cala-
brian nag. D'you see how gracefully he
Twice About It
a
pricks up his pig's ears . . . Ifxjk at his fine
mane and his chin! He's a showy beast,
too, don't you think?
"Every now and then he forgets that he's
a gelding and wants to make love to that
mare over there, three stalls to the right —
d'you see her? — the one whose face looks
so old, who's low in the fore-quarters and
has her belly on the ground.
"Is she a marc, that thing? She's a cow,
I assure you. If you could only see how she
moves — regular riding-school style! You'd
think she was walking on hot cinders, the
way she puts her Jioofs down. And a
mouth as hard as iron, my dear fellow!"
§ § §
In vain did Nero intimate to Fofo in
every possible manner that he did not wish
to listen to him. Fofo overwhelmed him
with incessant chatter.
"D'you know where we are ? We're with
a firm of carriers. There are many differ-
ent sorts of carriers — ours are called under-
takers.
"Do you know what it means to be an
undertaker's horse? It means that your job
is to pull a strange-looking black carriage
that has four pillars supporting the roof
and is all decked out grand with gilding
and a curtain and fringes — in fact a hand-
some carriage de luxe. But it's sheer waste
— you'd hardly believe it — sheer waste,
'cause no one ever comes and sits inside it.
"There's only the coachman on the box,
looking as solemn as can be.
"And we go slowly, always at a walk.
No risk of your ever getting into a muck
of sweat and having to be rubbed down on
your return, nor of the coachman giving
you a cut of the whip or anytliing else to
hurry you up.
"But slowly . . . slowly . . . slowdy . . .
34
Ltiigi Pirandello
"And the place we go to — our destina-
tion — we always seem to be there in time.
*'You know the carriage I described to
you. Well, Fve noticed, by the way, that
human beings seem to look upon it as an
object of peculiar reverence.
*'As I told you before, no one ever dares
to sit inside it, and, as soon as people see
it stop in front of a house, they all stand
still and stare at it with long faces, looking
quite frightened; and they all surround it,
holding lighted candles, and, as soon as it
starts again, they follow after it, walking
very quietly.
"Quite often, too, there's a band playing
in front of us — a band, my dear fellow,
which plays a particular kind of music
tliat makes you feel all funny in your
bowels.
"Now you mark my words! YouVe got
a nasty habit of shaking your head and
snorting. Well, you'll have to drop those
tricks. If you snort for nothing at all, what
d'you think you'll be doing when you have
to listen to that music?
"Ours is a soft enough job, I don't deny;
but it does call for composure and sol-
emnity. No snorting or jerking your head
up and down ! The very most we're allowed
is to swish our tails, quite, quite gently,
because the carriage we pull — I tell you
once again — is highly venerated. You'll
notice that all the men take off their hats
when they see us pass.
"D'you know how I discovered that
we're working for a firm of carriers } It was
this way: —
"About two years ago, I was standing
harnessed to one of our canopied carriages,
in front of the big gateway leading to the
building which is our regular goal.
"You'll see it, that big gateway. Behind
the railings are any number of dark trees
growing up to a sharp point: they're
planted in two rows, forming a long
straight avenue. Here and there, between
them, there are some fine, green meadows
full of good, luscious grass; but that's all
sheer waste, too, for one's not allowed to
eat it. Woe betide you if you put your lips
to it.
"Well — as I was saying — I was standing
there, when an old pal of mine from the
regimental days came up to me. The poor
fellow had come down in the world ter-
ribly and was reduced to drawing a
waggon — one of those long, low ones,
without any springs.
"He said to me: —
"'Hallo, Fofo! D'you see the state Fm
in? I'm quite done for!'
"'What work are you on?' I asked.
"'Transporting boxes!' he replied. — 'AH
day long, from a carrier's office to the cus-
tom house.'
"'Boxes?' I said. 'What kind of boxes?'
"'Heavy!' he answered. 'Frightfully
heavy! — ^full of merchandise to be for-
warded.'
"Then the light dawned on me, for I
may as well tell you that we also transport
a kind of very long box. They put it inside
our carriage from the back, as gently as
can be; while that's being done, with tre-
mendous care, the people standing round
all take off their hats and watch, with a
sort of frightened look. Why they do that
I really can't say, but it's obvious that, as
our business also is to take boxes, we must
be working for a carrier, don't you think
so?
"What the devil can be in those boxes?
They're heavy — you can't think how heavy
they are. Luckily we only convey one at a
time.
"We're carriers employed for the trans-
Better Thinly
port of goods, that's certain; but what
goods I don't know. They seem to be very
valuable, because the transport's always
carried out with much pomp and accom-
panied by a number of persons.
"At a certain point we usually, but not
always, stop in front of a splendid edifice,
which may perhaps be the custom house
for our line of transport. This building has
a great door-way. Out of this door-way
there come men dressed in black gowns,
with shirts worn outside them — I suppose
they're the customs officials. The box is re-
moved from the carriage, all heads being
bared again; then those men mark on the
box the permit to proceed with it.
"Where all these valuable goods that we
transport go to, I really don't now. I must
admit that's something I don't understand.
But I'm not at all sure that the human
beings know much about that — so I con-
sole myself with that thought.
"Indeed the magnificence of the boxes
and the solemnity of the ceremony might
lead one to suppose that men must know
something about this transport business of
theirs. But I notice that they're often filled
with doubt and fear; and from the long
dealings I've had with them for many
years, I have come to this conclusion — that
human beings do many things, my dear
chap, without having any idea at all why
they are doing them!"
§ § §
That morning, as Fofo had already
guessed from the head-groom's curses, the
preparations included velvets, tassels, and
plumes, and four horses to the carriage —
evidently a first-class affair.
"You see! What did I tell you.?"
Nero found himself harnessed to the
shaft, with Fofo as his partner. To his an-
Twice About It 35
noyance there was no escape from his com-
panion's ceaseless explanations.
Fofo was also annoyed that morning, on
account of the unfairness of the head-
groom, who, when arranging a four-in-
hand, always took him as a wheeler, never
as one of the leaders.
"The dirty dog! You can see for yourself
that pair in front of us is only for show.
What are they pulling? Nothing at all!
We go so slowly that all the pull falls upon
us wheelers. The other pair are merely out
for a pleasant walk, to stretch their legs,
dressed up to the nines And just look
at the kind of animals that are given the
preference over me, and I've got to put up
with it! D'you recognise them?"
They were the two black horses whom
Fofo had described as the doctor's horse
and the Calabrian nag.
"That foul Calabrian beast! I'm glad
he's in front of you, not of me. You'll get
a whifT from him, my dear fellow! You'll
soon find that it isn't only in the ears that
he's like a pig. Won't you just be grateful
to the head-groom for making a pet of
him and giving him double rations! ... If
you want to get on in this line of work,
don't start snorting Hallo ! You're be-
ginning it already. Keep your head still.
Look here, old chap, if you go on like that,
you'll find the reins jerked so hard that
your mouth will bleed, I assure you. Be-
cause to-day we're going to have speeches,
you know You'll see what a cheery
show it's going to be — one speech, two
speeches — three speeches I've even had
one first-class affair which had five
speeches! It was enough to drive one mad
— having to stand still for three hours on
end, decked out with all this finery so that
one could hardly breathe — one's legs
shackled, tail imprisoned and ears in tsvo
36
Luigi Pirandello
sheaths A jolly time, with the flies bit-
iitg one under the tail! You want to know
what speeches are? Oh, just rot! To tell
you the truth I haven't got the hang of it,
not altoc^ether These first-class shows
must be cases where there's a lot of com-
plication about the transport. Perhaps they
have to make those speeches to give the
necessary explanations. One isn't enough,
so they make a second one. Two aren't
enough, so they make a third. They may
even run to iive, as I told you before.
There have been times when I've gone so
far as to start kicking to right and left and
finished by rolling on the ground like a
lunatic Perhaps it'll be the same to-day.
...It's a swagger affair, I tell you! Have
you seen the coachman — doesn't he look
grand? There come the servants and the
candle-sticks I say, are you apt to shy T'
"I don't understand."
"Don't you? I mean do you take fright
easily? Because, you see, in a short time
they'll be shoving their lighted candles al-
most under your nose Steady ! oh,
steady ! What's come over you ? There, you
see, you've had a jerk at your mouth
Did it hurt ? Well, you'll get many more like
it to-day, I warn you, if . . . What are you
up to? What's the matter? Have you gone
mad? Don't stretch your neck out like
that! (What a funny old chap he is! — does
he fancy he's swimming? Or is he starting
a game of mora?) Stand still, I say!...
There! You've had some more jerks with
the reins Here, stop it! You're making
him hurt my mouth too. . . . (Oh, he's
mad! . . . Good God! He's gone clean crazy!
He's panting and neighing and snorting
and plunging and kicking up a row! My
God! what a row! He's mad, quite mad!
Fancy doing a kick-up when one's drawing
a carriage in a first-class show!)"-
Nero did indeed appear to have gone
quite mad; he panted and quivered and
pawed the ground, neighing and squealing.
The lackeys sprang hastily down from their
carriage to hold him — they had just reached
the door of the palace where they were
due to halt, where they were received by a
large company of gentlemen, all very trim,
in frock-coats and silk hats.
"What's happened?" everyone was ask-
ing. "Oh, look! look! One of the horses
is playing up!"
They rushed up, surrounding the hearse
in a jostling crowd and watching the pro-
ceedings with interest and surprise, some of
them shocked and frightened. The serv-
ants were unable to control Nero. The
coachman stood up and tugged furiously
at the reins, but all in vain. The horse con-
tinued to paw the ground, neighing and
trembling violently, with his head turned
towards the door-way of the palace.
He only quieted down when an aged
servant in livery emerged from that door-
way, pushed the lackeys on one side and
caught hold of the reins. Recognising the
animal at once, he cried out with tears in
his eyes: —
"Why, it's Nero! it's Nero! Poor old
Nero ! Of course he is excited ... he was
our dear mistress' horse! The horse of the
poor princess! He recognises the palace,
you know ... he smells his stable. Poor
Nero ! . . . come, be good. Yes, you can see,
it's me, your old Giuseppe Now stand
still ! . . . that's better Poor old Nero,
you have the task of taking her away —
d'you see? — your old mistress, whom you
still remember . . . it's your duty to convey
her. She'll be glad it's you who are to take
her for her last drive."
Furious at the discredit brought upon
the undertaker's firm — with all those
Better Thinly
gentlefolk present, too — the driver was still
pulling savagely at the reins and threaten-
ing to flog the horse, but Giuseppe called
out to him:—
"That'll do! That'll do! Stop it! Ill look
after him . . . he's as quiet as a lamb. . . .
Sit down. I'll lead him the whole way
We'll go together — eh, Nero? — taking our
kind mistress, very quietly, as we always
did, eh? You'll be good, so's not to hurt
her, won't you?. ..Poor old Nero! You
still remember her, don't you? They've
shut her up in the big box and now they're
just carrying her down "
At this point Fofo, who had been listen-
ing from the other side of the shaft, was so
astonished that he broke in with the in-
quiry: —
Twice About It 37
**Inside the box! — your mistress?**
Nero launched a kick sideways at him.
But Fofo was too excited by his new dis-
covery to resent the attack : —
"Oh! I see! Now I see! so we..." he
went on to himself, "so we ... I mean to
say . . . Yes, of course, I've got it now!...
That old man's weeping I've often be-
fore seen lots of others weep on similar
occasions ... so often seen long faces, sad
faces . . . and heard sad music . . . just like
now Yes, now I know all about it
That's why our job's such a soft one!
It's only when men must weep, that we
horses can be happy and have a restful
time. . . .
He felt strongly tempted to do some
kicking and prancing on his own account.
AESOP (6th Century B. C.)
The Horse and His Rider
As there is nothing li\e Aesop's Fables to be found anywhere in literature,
so an anthology of this sort would be incomplete without a quotation
from the Greeks slave's boo\ of etiquette.
A'
horse soldier took the utmost
care of his charger. As long as the
war lasted, he looked upon him
as his fellow-helper in all emergencies, and
fed him carefully with hay and corn. When
the war was over, he only allowed him
chaff to eat, and made him carry heavy
loads of wood, and subjected him to much
slavish drudgery and ill treatment. War,
however, being again proclaimed, and the
trumpet summoning him to his standard,
the Soldier put on his charger its military
trappings, and mounted, being clad in his
heavy coat of mail. The Horse fell down
straightway under the weight, no longer
equal to the burden, and said to his master,
'Tou must now e'en go to war on foot, for
you have transformed me from a Horse
into an Ass; and how can you expect that
I can again turn in a moment from an
Ass to a Horse .f^
§ § §
Damage is slow to mend.
38
WALTER dc la MARE (1873- )
Supp
ose
De la Mares ability to portray for the reader the wishful dreams of a
child gives us this charming little poem.
Suppose . . . and suppose that a wild little Horse of Magic
Came cantering out of the sky,
With bridle of silver and into the saddle I mounted
To fly — and to fly.
And we stretched up into the air, fleeting on in the sunshine,
A speck in the gleam
On galloping hoofs, his mane in the wind out-flowing,
As if in a dream.
Suppose and suppose, when the gentle star of evening
Came crinkling into the blue,
A magical castle we saw in the air, like a cloud of moonlight
As onward we flew.
And across the green moat on the drawbridge we foamed and we snorted,
And there was a beautiful queen
Who smiled at me strangely; and spoke to my wild little Horse, too —
A lovely and beautiful Queen.
Suppose and suppose she cried to her delicate maidens,
"Behold my daughter — my dear!"
And they crowned me with flowers, and then on their harps sate playing,
Solemn and clear.
And magical cakes and goblets were spread on the table;
And at the window the birds came in;
Hopping along with bright eyes, pecking the crumbs from the platters,
And sipped of the wine.
39
Walter dc la Mare
And splashing up — up on the roof, tossed fountains of crystal;
And Princes in scarlet and green
Shot with their bows and arrows, and kneeled with their dishes
Of fruits for the Queen.
And we walked in a magical garden with rivers and bowers,
And my bed was of ivory and gold; *
And the Queen breathed soft in my ear a song of enchantment.
And I never grew old.
And I never came back to the earth, oh never and never,
How mother would cry and cry.
There'd be snow on the fields then, and all these sweet flowers in winter
Would wither and die. . . .
Suppose . . . and suppose. . . ,
40
LORD DUNSANY (1878- )
The Bride of the Man-Horse
frmn THE BOOK OF WONDER
The centaur, though not strictly a horse, is surely the result of man's
desire to be one with his mount. As such, and because of its prominence
in fable and legend, this anthology would not be complete without one
story of the miraculous Man-Horse. Lord Dunsany's love of the fa?2tastic,
and his wonderfully beautiful descriptions, ma\e this tale unforgettable.
o
n the morning of his two hun-
dred and fiftieth year Shepperalk
the centaur went to the golden
coffer, wherein the treasure of the centaurs
was, and taking from it the hoarded amulet
that his father, Jyshak, in the years of his
prime, had hammered from mountain gold
and set with opals bartered from the
gnomes, he put it upon his wrist, and said
no word, but walked from his mother's
cavern.
And he took with him too that clarion
of the centaurs, that famous silver horn,
that in its time had summoned to surrender
seventeen cities of Man, and for twenty
years had brayed at star-girt walls in the
Siege of Tholdenblarna, the citadel of the
gods, what time the centaurs waged their
fabulous war and were not broken by any
force of arms, but retreated slowly in a
cloud of dust before the final miracle of
the gods that They brought in Their des-
perate need from Their ultimate armoury.
He took it and strode away, and his mother
only sighed and let him go.
She knew that to-day he would not drink
at the stream coming down from the ter-
races of Varpa Niger, the inner land of the
mountains, that today he would not wonder
awhile at the sunset and afterwards trot
back to the cavern again to sleep on rushes
pulled by rivers that know not Man. She
knew that it was with him as it had been
of old with his father, and with Goom
die father of Jyshak, and long ago with the
gods. Therefore she only sighed and let
him go.
But he, coming out from tlie cavern that
was his home, went for the first time over
the little stream, and going round the cor-
ner of the crags saw glittering beneath him
the mundane plain. And the wind of the
41
4^
Lord
autumn that was gilding the world, rush-
ing up the slopes of the mountain, beat
cold on his naked flanks. He raised his
head and snorted.
"I am a man-horse now!" he shouted
aloud; and leaping from crag to crag he
galloped by valley and chasm, by torrent-
bed and scar of avalanche, until he came
to the wandering leagues of the plain, and
left behind him for ever the Athraminau-
rian mountains.
His goal was Zretazoola, the city of Som-
belene. What legend of Sombelene's inhu-
man beauty or of the wonder of her mystery
had ever floated over the mundane plain
to the fabulous cradle of the centaur's race,
the Athraminaurian mountains, I do not
know. Yet in the blood of man there is
a tide, an old sea-current, rather, that is
somehow akin to the twilight, which brings
him rumours of beauty from however far
away, as driftwood is found at sea from
islands not yet discovered: and this spring-
tide or current that visits the blood of man
comes from the fabulous quarter of his
lineage, from the legendary, the old; it
takes him out to the woodlands, out to the
hills; he listens to ancient song. So it may
be that Shepperalk's fabulous blood stirred
in those lonely mountains away at the edge
of the world to rumors that only the airy
twilight knew and only confided secretly
to the bat, for Shepperalk was more legend-
ary even than man. Certain it was that he
headed from the first for the city of Zreta-
zoola, where Sombelene in her temple
dwelt; though all the mundane plain, its
rivers and mountains, lay between Shep-
peralk's home and the city he sought.
When first the feet of the centaur touched
the grass of that soft alluvial earth he blew
for joy upon the silver horn, he pranced
and caracoled, he gambolled over the
Dunsany
leagues; pace came to him like a maiden
with a lamp, a new and beautiful wonder;
the wind laughed as it passed him. He put
his head down low to the scent of the
flowers, he lifted it up to be nearer the
unseen stars, he revelled through kingdoms,
took rivers in his stride ; how can I tell you,
ye that dwell in cities, how shall I tell you
what he felt as he galloped? He felt for
strength like the towers of Bel-Narana; for
lightness like those gossamer palaces that
the fairy-spider builds 'twixt heaven and sea
along the coasts of Zith; for swiftness like
some bird racing up from the morning to
sing in some city's spires before daylight
comes. He was the sworn companion of
the wind. For joy he was as a song; the
lightnings of his legendary sires, the earlier
gods, began to mix with his blood; his
hooves thundered. He came to the cities of
men, and all men trembled, for they re-
membered the ancient mythical wars, and
now they dreaded new battles and feared
for the race of man. Not by Clio are these
wars recorded, history does not know them,
but what of that f Not all of us have sat at
historians' feet, but all have learned fable
and myth at their mothers' knees. And
there were none that did not fear strange
wars when they saw Shepperalk swerve
and leap along the public ways. So he passed
from city to city.
By night he lay down unpanting in the
reeds of some marsh or a forest; before
dawn he rose triumphant, and hugely
drank of some river in the dark, and splash-
ing out of it would trot to some high place
to find the sunrise, and to send echoing
eastwards the exultant greetings of his jubi-
lant horn. And lo! the sunrise coming up
from the echoes, and the plains new-lit by
the day, and the leagues spinning by like
water flung from a top, and that gay com-
The Boo^
panion, the loudly laughing wind, and men
and the fears of men and their little cities;
and, after that, great rivers and waste spaces
and huge new hills, and then new lands
beyond them, and more cities of men, and
always the old companion the glorious
wind. Kingdom by kingdom slipt by, and
still his breath was even. "It is a golden
thing to gallop on good turf in one's youth,"
said the young man-horse, the centaur. "Ha,
ha," said the wind of the hills, and the
winds of the plain answered.
Bells pealed in frantic towers, wise men
consulted parchments, astrologers sought
of the portent from the stars, the aged made
subtle prophecies. "Is he not swift?" said
the young. "How glad he is," said children.
Night after night brought him sleep,
and day after day lit his gallop, till he
came to the lands of the Athalonian men
who live by the edges of the mundane
plain, and from them he came to the lands
of legend again such as those in which he
was cradled on the other side of the world,
and which fringe the marge of the world
and mix with the twilight. And there a
mighty thought came into his untired heart,
for he knew that he neared Zretazoola now,
the city of Sombelene.
It was late in the day when he neared
it, and clouds coloured with evening rolled
low on the plain before him; he galloped
on into their golden mist, and when it hid
from his eyes the sight of things, the dreams
in his heart awoke and romantically he
pondered all those rumours that used to
come to him from Sombelene, because of
the fellowship of fabulous things. She dwelt
(said evening secretly to the bat) in a little
temple by a lone lake-shore. A grove of
cypresses screened her from the city, from
Zretazoola of the climbing ways. And oppo-
site her temple stood her tomb, her sad
of Wonder ^-^
lake-sepulchre with open do^jr, lest her
amazing beauty and the centuries of her
youth should ever give rise to the heresy
among men that lovely Sombelene was im-
mortal: for only her beauty and her lineage
were divine.
Her father had been half centaur and
half god; her mother was the child of a
desert lion and that sphinx that watches
the pyramids; — she was more mystical than
Woman.
Her beauty was as a dream, was as a
song; the one dream of a lifetime dreamed
on enchanted dews, the one song sung to
some city by a deathless bird blown far
from his native coasts by storm in Para-
dise. Dawn after dawn on mountains of
romance or twilight after twilight could
never equal her beauty; all the glow-worms
had not the secret among them nor all the
stars of night; poets had never sung it nor
even guessed its meaning; the morning
envied it, it was hidden from lovers.
She was unwed, un wooed.
The lions came not to woo her because
they feared her strength, and the gods dared
not love her because they knew she must
die.
This was what evening had whispered
to the bat, this was the dream in the heart
of Shepperalk as he cantered blind through
the mist. And suddenly there at his hooves
in the dark of the plain appeared the cleft
in the legendary lands, and Zretazoola shel-
tering in the cleft, and sunning herself in
the evening.
Swiftly and craftily he bounded down by
the upper end of the cleft, and entering
Zretazoola by the outer gate which looks
out sheer on the stars, he galloped sud-
denly down the narrow streets. Many that
rushed out on to the balconies as he went
., clattering by, many that put their heads
44 Lord
from glittering windows, are told of in
olden song. Shcpperalk did not tarry to give
greetings or to answer challenges from
martial towers, he was down through the
earthward gateway like the thunderbolt of
his sires, and, like Leviathan who has leapt
at an eagle, he surged into the water be-
tween temple and tomb.
He galloped with half-shut eyes up the
temple steps, and, only seeing dimly
dirough his lashes, seized Sombelene by the
Dtinsany
hair, undazzled as yet by her beauty, and so
haled her away; and leaping with her over
the floorless chasm where the waters of the
lake fall unremembered away into a hole in
the world, took her we know not where, to
be her slave for all those centuries that are
allowed to his race.
Three blasts he gave as he went upon
that silver horn that is the world-old treas-
ure of the centaurs. These were his wedding
bells.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616)
The Stallion of Adonis
from VENUS AND ADONIS
Venus and Adonis was the earliest of Sha\e spear e*s workj to be published,
being first issued in quarto in 1^93- The following verses come very early
in the poem and set the stage for the love-mahjng of the Goddess and her
lover. Never has this description of the physical beauty and passion of a
stallion, as expressed in his appearance and movements, been surpassed
either in its loveliness or its accuracy.
But, lo, from forth a copse that neighbours by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud,
Adonis' trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud :
The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a
tree,
Breaketh his rein and to her straight goes he.
Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds.
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he
wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's
thunder;
The iron bit he crusheth 'tween his teeth,
ControUing what he was controlled with.
His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging
mane
Upon his compass'd crest now stand on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send:
His eye which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.
Sometimes he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say, "Lo, thus my strength is
tried;
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair breeder that is standing by."
What recketh he his rider's angry stir,
His flattering "Holla" or his "Stand, I say"?
What cares he now for curb or pricking spur?
For rich caparisons or trappings gay?
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.
Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he
stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;
To bid the wind a base he now prepares,
And whether he run or fly they know not
whether;
For through his mane and tail the high wind
sings.
Fanning the hairs, who wave Hke feather 'd
wings.
45
Will jam Sha\espeare
He looks upon his love and neighs unto her; Beating his kind embracement with her
She answers him, as if she knew his mind: heels.
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
her, He veils his tail, that, like a falling plume,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems un- Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent:
kind. He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.
Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he His love perceiving how he was enraged,
feels, Grew kinder and his fury was assuaged.
46
I
Hunting & Polo
p
"The 'orse and 'ound were made for each
other, and natur threw in the fox as a con-
necting hnk between the two."
m — JORROCKS
JOHN MASEFIELD (1875- )
the FIND from
REYNARD THE FOX
Every page of Masefield's magnificent poem, Reynard the Fox, contains
passages which are quotable; the description of the members of the Field
and their mounts as they collect, which precedes the one I have quoted,
so vivid, yet so simple and sparing in its choice of words and metaphor
that one wants to read and reread it; the beautiful descriptions of the
English countryside; the transformation of the fox from a jaunty, cock--
sure fellow who enjoys the beginnings of the chase to a frantic, harried,
desperate creature, seeding sanctuary behind every clump; all are quot-
able, all are dramatic, all are impressive. After long consideration I chose
the stanzas which follow because of the completeness of the picture they
lay before us, "the hunt has been, and found, and gone."
The hunt
Followed down hill to race with him,
White Rabbit with his swallow's skim,
Drew within hail, "Quick burst, Sir Peter."
"A traveller. Nothing could be neater.
Making for Godsdown clumps, I take it?"
"Lark's Ley bourne, sir, if he can make it.
Forrard."
Bill Ridden thundered down;
His big mouth grinned beneath his frown,
The hounds were going away from horses.
He saw the glint of water-courses,
Yell Brook and Wittold's Dyke ahead.
His horse shoes sliced the green turf red.
Young Cothill's chaser rushed and passt him.
Nob Manor, running next, said "Blast him.
That poet chap who thinks he rides."
Hugh Colway's mare made straking strides
Across the grass, the Colonel next:
Then Squire volleying oaths and vext.
Fighting his hunter for refusing:
Bell Ridden like a cutter cruising
SaiUng the grass, then Cob on Warder
The Minton Price upon Marauder;
Ock Gurney with his eyes intense,
Burning as with a different sense,
His big mouth muttering glad "by damns";
Then Pete crouched down from head to hams,
Rapt like a saint, bright focussed flame.
Bennett with devils in his wame
Chewing black cud and spitting slanting;
Copse scattering jests and Stukely ranting;
Sal Ridden taking line from Dansey;
Long Robert forcing Necromancy;
A dozen more with bad beginnings;
Myngs riding hard to snatch an innings,
A wild last hound with high shrill yelps,
Smacked forrard with some whip-thong
skelps.
Then last of all, at top of rise,
The crowd on foot all gasps and eves
The run up hill had winded them.
49
John Mase field
TTiey saw the Yell Brook like a gem
Blue in the grass a short mile on;
They heard faint cries, but hounds were
gone
A good eight fields and out of sight
Except a rippled glimmer white
Going away with dying cheering,
And scarlet flappings disappearing,
And scattering horses going, going.
Going like mad, White Rabbit snowing
Far on ahead, a loose horse taking,
Fence after fence with stirrups shaking.
And scarlet specks and dark specks dwindling.
Nearer, were twigs knocked into kindling,
A much bashed fence still dropping stick,
Flung clods, still quivering from the kick,
Cut hoof-marks pale in cheesy clay.
The horse-smell blowing clean away.
Birds flitting back into the cover.
One last faint cry, then all was over.
The hunt had been, and found, and gone.
50
E. CE SOMERVILLE (1861- )
AND MARTIN ROSS (1862-1915)
Philippa's Fox-Hunt
from SOME EXPERIENCES
OF AN miSH R.M.
No fox-hunter or lover of Irish tales need he introduced to the stones of
that magnificent team of writers, E. CE Somerville and Martin Ross, for
they are revered and loved by all such. And deservedly so; where will you
find characters which are more vivid or alive, humor tvhich is more J{een
and sharp and yet good-tempered and sympathetic, and situations which
bring to mind images which are more excrutiatingly funny? It is hard
indeed to choose from the several volumes which Somerville and Ross
have given us, but, if a vote were ta\en, probably the story which follows
would receive as many plaudits as any,
"It isn't the 'unting as 'urts the horse's 'oofs,
It's the 'ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer on the 'ard
'igh road!"
— OLD ENGLISH ADAGE.
^ o one can accuse Philippa and
me of having married in haste.
As a matter of fact, it was but
Httle under five years from that autumn
evening on the river v^hen I had said w^hat
is called in Ireland "the hard w^ord," to the
day in August v^hen I v^as led to the altar
by my best man, and v^as subsequently led
away from it by Mrs. Sinclair Yeates. About
two years out of the five had been spent
by me at Shreelane in ceaseless warfare
with drains, eaveshoots, chimneys, pumps;
all those fundamentals, in short, that the
ingenuous and improving tenant expects
to find established as a basis from which to
rise to higher things. As far as rising to
higher things went, frequent ascents to the
roof to search for leaks summed up my
achievements; in fact, I suffered so general
a shrinkage of my ideals that the triumph
of making the hall-door bell ring blinded
me to the fact that the rat-holes in the hall
floor were nailed up with pieces of tin bis-
cuit boxes, and that the casual visitor could,
instead of leaving a card, have easily writ-
ten his name in the damp on the walls.
51
E. (E Someri/ille and Martin Ross
Philippa, however, proved adorably cal-
lous to these and similar shortcomings. She
regarded Shreelane and its floundering,
foundering menage of incapables in the
light of a gigantic picnic in a foreign land;
she held long conversations daily with Mrs.
Cadogan, in order, as she informed me,
to acquire the language; without any ul-
terior domestic intention she engaged
kitchen-maids because of the beauty of their
eyes, and housemaids because they had such
delightfully picturesque old mothers, and
she declined to correct the phraseology of
the parlour-maid, whose painful habit it
was to whisper "Do ye choose cherry or
clarry?" when proffering the wine. Fast-
days, perhaps, afforded my wife her first
insight into the sterner realities of Irish
housekeeping. Philippa had what are
known as High Church proclivities, and
took the matter seriously.
"I don't know how we are to manage for
the servants' dinner to-morrow, Sinclair,"
she said, coming in to my office one Thurs-
day morning; "Julia says she 'promised
God this long time that she wouldn't eat an
egg on a fast-day,' and the kitchen-maid
says she won't eat herrings 'without they're
fried with onions,' and Mrs. Cadogan says
she will 'not go to them extremes for serv-
ants.' "
"I should let Mrs. Cadogan settle the
menu herself," I suggested.
"I asked her to do that," replied Philippa,
"and she only said she 'thanked God she
had no appetite!' "
The lady of the house here fell away into
unseasonable laughter.
I made the demoralising suggestion that,
as we were going away for a couple of
nights, we might safely leave them to fight
it out, and the problem was abandoned.
Philippa had been much called on by the
neighbourhood in all its shades and grades,
and daily she and her trousseau frocks pre-
sented themselves at hall-doors of varying
dimensions in due acknowledgment of ci-
vilities. In Ireland, it may be noted, the
process known in England as "summering
and wintering" a newcomer does not ob-
tain; sociability and curiosity alike forbid
delay. The visit to which we owed our
escape from the intricacies of the fast-day
was to the Knoxes of Castle Knox, relations
in some remote and tribal way of my land-
lord, Mr. Flurry of that ilk. It involved a
short journey by train, and my wife's long-
est basket-trunk; it also, which was more
serious, involved my being lent a horse to
go out cubbing the following morning.
At Castle Knox we sank into an almost
forgotten environment of draught-proof
windows and doors, of deep carpets, of si-
lent servants instead of clattering bel-
ligerents. Philippa told me afterwards that
it had only been by an effort that she had
restrained herself from snatching up the
train of her wedding-gown as she paced
across the wide hall on little Sir Valentine's
arm. After three weeks at Shreelane she
found it difficult to remember that the floor
was neither damp nor dusty.
I had the good fortune to be of the lim-
ited number of those who got on with
Lady Knox, chiefly, I imagine, because I
was as a worm before her, and thankfully
permitted her to do all the talking.
"Your wife is extremely pretty," she pro-
nounced autocratically, surveying Philippa
between the candle-shades; "does she ride.?"
Lady Knox was a short square lady, with
a weather-beaten face, and an eye decisive
from long habit of taking her own line
across country and elsewhere. She would
have made a very imposing little coachman,
and would have caused her stable helpers
Some Experiences
to rue the day they had the presumption to
be born; it struck me that Sir Valentine
sometimes did so.
"I'm glad you like her looks," I replied,
"as I fear you will find her thoroughly
despicable otherwise; for one thing, she not
only can't ride, but she believes that I
can!"
"Oh come, you're not as bad as all that!"
my hostess was good enough to say; "I'm
going to put you up on Sorcerer to-morrow,
and we'll see you at the top of the hunt — if
there is one. That young Knox hasn't a
notion how to draw these woods."
"Well, the best run we had last year out
of this place was with Flurry's hounds,"
struck in Miss Sally, sole daughter of Sir
Valentine's house, and home, from her
place half-way down the table. It was not
difficult to see that she and her mother held
different views on the subject of Mr. Flurry
Knox.
"I call it a criminal thing in any one's
great-great-grandfather to rear up a prepos-
terous troop of sons and plant them all out
in his own country," Lady Knox said to me
with apparent irrelevance. "I detest col-
laterals. Blood may be thicker than water,
but it is also a great deal nastier. In this
country I find that fifteenth cousins con-
sider themselves near relations if they live
within twenty miles of one!"
Having before now taken in the position
with regard to Flurry Knox, I took care to
accept these remarks as generalities, and
turned the conversation to other themes.
"I see Mrs. Yeates is doing wonders with
Mr. Hamilton," said Lady Knox presently,
following the direction of my eyes, which
had strayed away to where Philippa was
beaming upon her left-hand neighbour, a
mildewed-looking old clergyman, who was
of an Irish R.M. 53
delivering a long dissertation, the purport of
which we were happily unable to catch.
"She has always had a gift for the
Church," I said.
"Not curates?" said Lady Knox, in her
deep voice.
I made haste to reply that it was the
elders of the Church who were venerated
by my wife.
"Well, she has her fancy in old Eustace
Hamilton; he's elderly enough!" said Lady
Knox. "I wonder if she'd venerate him as
much if she knew that he had fought with
his sister-in-law, and they haven't spoken
for thirty years! though for the matter of
that," she added, "I think it shows his good
sense I
"Mrs. Knox is rather a friend of mine,"
I ventured.
"Is sht? H'm! Well, she's not one of
mine!" replied my hostess, with her usual
definiteness. "I'll say one thing for her, I be-
lieve she's always been a sportswoman. She's
very rich, you know, and they say she only
married old Badger Knox to save his hounds
from being sold to pay his debts, and then
she took the horn from him and hunted
them herself. Has she been rude to your
wife yet.?' No? Oh, well, she will. It's a mere
question of time. She hates all English
people. You know the story they tell of
her? She was coming home from London,
and when she was getting her ticket the
man asked if she had said a ticket for
York. 'No, thank God, Cork!' says Mrs.
Knox."
"Well, I rather agree with her!" said I;
"but why did she fight with Mr. Hamil-
ton?"
"Oh, nobody knows. I don't believe they
know themselves! Whatever it was, the
old lady drives five miles to Fort\villiam
every Sunday, rather than go to his church,
54
E. (E Somerville and Martin Ross
just outside her own back gates;' Lady
Knox said with a laugh Uke a terrier's
bark. "I wish I'd fought with him myself,"
she said; "he gives us forty minutes every
Sunday."
As I struggled into my boots the follow-
ing morning, I felt that Sir Valentine's acid
coniidences on cub-hunting, bestowed on
me at midnight, did credit to his judgment.
**A very moderate amusement, my dear
Major," he had said, in his dry little voice;
"you should stick to shooting. No one ex-
pects you to shoot before daybreak."
It was six o'clock as I crept downstairs,
and found Lady Knox and Miss Sally at
breakfast, with two lamps on the table, and
a foggy daylight oozing in from under the
half-raised blinds. Philippa was already in
the hall, pumping up her bicycle, in a state
of excitement at the prospect of her first
experience of hunting that would have been
more comprehensible to me had she been
going to ride a strange horse, as I was. As
I bolted my food I saw the horses being led
past the windows, and a faint twang of a
horn told that Flurry Knox and his hounds
were not far off.
Miss Sally jumped up.
"If Fm not on the Cockatoo before the
hounds come up, I shall never get there!"
she said, hobbling out of the room in the
toils of her safety habit. Her small, alert
face looked very childish under her riding-
hat; the lamp-light struck sparks out of her
thick coil of golden-red hair: I wondered
how I had ever thought her like her prim
litde father.
She was already on her white cob when
I got to the hall-door, and Flurry Knox
was riding over the glistening wet grass
with his hounds, while his whip. Dr. Je-
rome Hickey, was having a stirring time
with the young entry and the rabbit-holes.
They moved on without stopping, up a
back avenue, under tall and dripping trees,
to a thick laurel covert, at some little dis-
tance from the house. Into this the hounds
were thrown, and the usual period of
fidgety inaction set in for the riders, of
whom, all told, there were about half-a-
dozen. Lady Knox, square and solid, on her
big, confidential iron-grey, was near me,
and her eyes were on me and my mount;
with her rubicund face and white collar
she was more than ever like a coachman.
"Sorcerer looks as if he suited you well,"
she said, after a few minutes of silence,
during which the hounds rustled and
crackled steadily through the laurels; "he's
a little high on the leg, and so are you, you
know, so you show each other ofl."
Sorcerer was standing like a rock, with
his good-looking head in the air and his
eyes fastened on the covert. His manners,
so far, had been those of a perfect gentle-
man, and were in marked contrast to those
of Miss Sally's cob, who was sidling, hop-
ping, and snatching unappeasably at his
bit. Philippa had disappeared from view
down the avenue ahead. The fog was melt-
ing, and the sun threw long blades of light
through the trees; everything was quiet,
and in the distance the curtained windows
of the house marked the warm repose of
Sir Valentine, and those of the party who
shared his opinion of cubbing.
"Hark! hark to cry there!"
It was Flurry's voice, away at the other
side of the covert. The rustling and brush-
ing through the laurels became more ve-
hement, then passed out of hearing.
"He never will leave his hounds alone,"
said Lady Knox disapprovingly.
Miss Sally and the Cockatoo moved away
in a series of heraldic capers towards the
end of the laurel plantation, and at the
Some Experiences
same moment I saw Philippa on her bicycle
shoot into view on the drive ahead of us.
"IVc seen a fox!" she screamed, white
with what I bcHcve to have been personal
terror, though she says it was excitement;
"it passed quite close to me!"
"What way did he go?" bellowed a voice
which I recognised as Dr. Hickey's, some-
where in the deep of the laurels.
"Down the drive!" returned Philippa,
with a pea-hen quality in her tones with
which I was quite unacquainted.
An electrifying screech of "Gone away!"
was projected from the laurels by Dr.
Hickey.
"Gone away!" chanted Flurry's horn at
the top of the covert.
"This is what he calls cubbing!" said
Lady Knox, "a mere farce!" but none the
less she loosed her sedate monster into a
canter.
Sorcerer got his hind-legs under him, and
hardened his crest against the bit, as we all
hustled along the drive after the flying
figure of my wife. I knew very little about
horses, but I realised that even with the
hounds tumbling hysterically out of the
covert, and the Cockatoo kicking the gravel
into his face. Sorcerer comported himself
with the manners of the best society. Up a
side road I saw Flurry Knox opening half
of a gate and cramming through it; in a
moment we also had crammed through,
and the turf of a pasture field was under
our feet. Dr. Hickey leaned forward and
took hold of his horse; I did likewise, with
the trifling difference that my horse took
hold of me, and I steered for Flurry Knox
with single-hearted purpose, the hounds,
already a field ahead, being merely an ex-
citing and noisy accompaniment of this
endeavour. A heavy stone wall was the
first occurrence of note. Flurry chose a place
of an Irish RM. «g
where the top was loose, and his clumsy-
looking brown marc changed feet on the
rattling stones like a fairy. Sorcerer came
at it, tense and collected as a bow at full
stretch, and sailed steeply into the air; I
saw the wall far beneath me, with an un-
suspected ditch on the far side, and I felt
my hat following me at the full stretch
of its guard as we swept over it, then,
with a long slant, we descended to earth
some sixteen feet from where we had left
it, and I was possessor of the gratifying fact
that I had achieved a good-sized "fly," and
had not perceptibly moved in my saddle.
Subsequent disillusioning experience has
taught me that but few horses jump like
Sorcerer, so gallantly, so sympathetically,
and with such supreme mastery of the sub-
ject; but none the less the enthusiasm that
he imparted to me has never been extin-
guished, and that October morning ride
revealed to me the unsuspected intoxication
of fox-hunting.
Behind me I heard the scrabbling of the
Cockatoo's little hoofs among the loose
stones, and Lady Knox, galloping on my
left, jerked a maternal chin over her shoul-
der to mark her daughter's progress. For
my part, had there been an entire circus
behind me, I was far too much occupied
with ramming on my hat and trying to
hold Sorcerer, to have looked round, and
all my spare faculties were devoted to steer-
ing for Flurry, who had taken a right-
handed turn, and was at that moment
surmounting a bank of uncertain and briary
aspect. I surmounted it also, with the swift-
ness and simplicity for which the Quaker's
methods of bank jumping had not prepared
me, and two or three fields, traversed at the
same steeplechase pace, brought us to a
road and to an abrupt check. There, sud-
denly, were the hounds, scrambling in
56 E, CE Somen' Hie
baffled silence down into the road from the
opposite bank, to look for the line they had
overrun, and there, amazingly, was Phi-
lippa, engaged in excited converse with
several men with spades over their shoul-
ders.
"Did ye see the fox, boys?" shouted
Flurry, addressing the group.
"We did! we did!" cried my wife and her
friends in chorus; "he ran up the road!"
"We'd be badly off without Mrs. Yeates!"
said Flurry, as he whirled his mare round
and clattered up the road with a hustle of
hounds after him.
It occurred to me as forcibly as any mere
earthly thing can occur to those who are
wrapped in the sublimities of a run, that,
for a voun^ woman who had never before
seen a fox out of a cage at the Zoo, Philippa
w^as taking to hunting very kindly. Her
cheeks were a most brilliant pink, her blue
eyes shone.
"Oh, Sinclair!" she exclaimed, "they say
he's going for Aussolas, and there's a road
I can ride all the way!"
"Ye can. Miss! Sure we'll show you!"
chorussed her cortege.
Her foot was on the pedal ready to
mount. Decidedly my wife was in no need
of assistance from me.
Up the road a hound gave a yelp of dis-
covery, and flung himself over a stile into
the fields; the rest of the pack went squeal-
ing and jostling after him, and I followed
Flurry over one of those infinitely varied
erections, pleasantly termed "gaps" in Ire-
land. On this occasion the gap was made of
three razor-edged slabs of slate leaning
against an iron bar, and Sorcerer conveyed
to me his thorough knowledge of the matter
by a lift of his hind-quarters that made me
feel as if I were being skilfully kicked
downstairs. To what extent I looked it, I
and Martin Ross
cannot say, nor providentially can Philippa,
as she had already started. I only know
that undeserved good luck restored to me
my stirrup before Sorcerer got away with
me in the next field.
What followed was, I am told, a very fast
fifteen minutes; for me time was not; the
empty fields rushed past uncounted, fences
came and went in a flash, while the wind
sang in my ears, and the dazzle of the early
sun was in my eyes. I saw the hounds occa-
sionally, sometimes pouring over a green
bank, as the charging breaker lifts and
flings itself, sometimes driving across a
field, as the white tongues of foam slide
racing over the sand; and always ahead of
me was Flurry Knox, going as a man goes
who knows his country, who knows his
horse, and whose heart is wholly and abso-
lutely in the right place.
Do what I would. Sorcerer's implacable
stride carried me closer and closer to the
brown mare, till, as I thundered down the
slope of a long field, I was not twenty
yards behind Flurry. Sorcerer had stiffened
his neck to iron, and to slow him down was
beyond me; but I fought his head away to
the right, and found myself coming hard
and steady at a stonefaced bank with broken
ground in front of it. Flurry bore away to
the left, shouting something that I did not
understand. That Sorcerer shortened his
stride at the right moment was entirely due .
to his own judgment; standing well away
from the jump, he rose like a stag out of
the tussocky ground, and as he swung my
twelve stone six into the air the obstacle
revealed itself to him and me as consisting
not of one bank but of two, and between
the two lay a deep grassy lane, half choked
with furze. I have often been asked to state
the width of the bohereen, and can only
reply that in my opinion it was at least
Some Experiences
eighteen feet; Flurry Knox and Dr. Hickcy,
who did not jump it, say that it is not more
than five. What Sorcerer did with it I can-
not say; the sensation was of a towering
flight with a kick back in it, a biggish drop,
and a landing on cee-springs, still on the
downhill grade. That was how one of the
best horses in Ireland took one of Ireland's
most ignorant riders over a very nasty place.
A sombre line of fir-wood lay ahead,
rimmed with a grey wall, and in another
couple of minutes we had pulled up on the
Aussolas road, and were watching the
hounds struggling over the wall into Aus-
solas demesne.
"No hurry now," said Flurry, turning in
his saddle to watch the Cockatoo jump into
the road, "he's to ground in the big earth
inside. Well, Major, it's well for you that's
a big-jumped horse. I thought you were a
dead man a while ago when you faced him
at the bohereen!"
I was disclaiming intention in the matter
when Lady Knox and the others joined us.
"I thought you told me your wife was no
sportswoman," she said to me, critically
scanning Sorcerer's legs for cuts the while,
"but when I saw her a minute ago she had
abandoned her bicycle and was running
across country like "
"Look at her now!" interrupted Miss
Sally. "Oh! — oh!" In the interval between
these exclamations my incredulous eyes be-
held my wife in mid-air, hand in hand with
a couple of stalwart country boys, with
whom she was leaping in unison from the
top of a bank on to the road.
Every one, even the saturnine Dr. Hickey,
began to laugh; I rode back to Philippa,
who was exchanging compliments and con-
gratulations with her escort.
"Oh, Sinclair!" she cried, "wasn't it splen-
of an Irish R.M. 57
did? I saw you jumping, and everything!
Where are they going now?"
"My dear girl," I said, with marital dis-
approval, "you're killing yourself. Where's
your bicycle?"
"Oil, it's punctured in a sort of lane, back
there. It's all right; and then they" — she
breathlessly waved her hand at her attend-
ants — "they showed me the way."
"Begor! you proved very good. Miss!"
said a grinning cavalier.
"Faith she did!" said another, polishing
his shining brow with his white flannel
coat-sleeve, "she lepped like a haarse!"
"And may I ask how you propose to go
home?" said I.
"I don't know and I don't care! I'm not
going home!" She cast an entirely dis-
obedient eye at me. "And your eye-glass is
hanging down your back and your tie is
bulging out over your waistcoat!"
The little group of riders had begun to
move away.
"We're going on into Aussolas," called
out Flurry; "come on, and make my grand-
mother give you some breakfast, Mrs.
Yeates; she always has it at eight o'clock."
The front gates were close at hand, and
we turned in under the tall beech-trees,
with the unswept leaves rustling round the
horses' feet, and the lovely blue of the
October morning sky filling the spaces be-
tween smooth grey branches and golden
leaves. The woods rang with the voices of
the hounds, enjoying an untrammelled
rabbit hunt, while die Master and the Whip,
both on foot, strolled along unconcernedly
with their bridles over their arms, making
themselves agreeable to my wife, an occa-
sional touch of Flurry's horn, or a crack of
Dr. Hickey's whip, just indicating to the
pack that the authorities still took a friendly
interest in their doings.
58
E, CE Somen/ille and Martin Ross
Down a grassy glade in the wood a party
of old Mrs. Knox's young horses suddenly
swept into view, headed by an old mare,
who, widi her tail over her back, stampeded
ponderously past our cavalcade, shaking
and swinging her handsome old head,
while her youthful friends bucked and
kicked aiid snapped at each other round
her with the ferocious humor of their kind.
"Here, Jerome, take the horn," said
Flurry to Dr. Hickey; "I'm going to see
Mrs. Yeates up to die house, the way these
tomfools won't gallop on top of her."
From this point it seems to me that Phi-
lippa's adventures are more worthy of rec-
ord than mine, and as she has favoured me
with a full account of them, I venture to
think my version may be relied on.
Mrs. Knox was already at breakfast when
Philippa was led, quaking, into her for-
midable presence. My wife's acquaintance
with Mrs. Knox was, so far, limited to a
state visit on either side, and she found but
little comfort in Flurry's assurances that his
grandmother wouldn't mind if he brought
all the hounds in to breakfast, coupled with
the statement that she would put her eyes
on sticks for the Major.
Whatever the truth of this may have
been, Mrs. Knox received her guest with an
equanimity quite unshaken by the fact that
her boots were in the fender instead of on
her feet, and that a couple of shawls of
varying dimensions and degrees of age did
not conceal the inner presence of a magenta
flannel dressing-jacket. She installed Phi-
lippa at the table and plied her with food,
oblivious as to whether the needful imple-
ments with which to eat it were forthcom-
ing or no. She told Flurry where a vixen
had reared her family, and she watched him
ride away, with some biting comments on
his mare's hocks screamed after him from
the window.
The dining-room at Aussolas Casde is
one of the many rooms in Ireland in which
Cromwell is said to have stabled his horse
(and probably no one would have objected
less than Mrs. Knox had she been consulted
in the matter). Philippa questions if the
room had ever been tidied up since, and
she endorses Flurry's observation that
"there wasn't a day in the year you wouldn't
get feeding for a hen and chickens on the
floor." Opposite to Philippa, on a Louis
Quinze chair, sat Mrs. Knox's woolly dog,
its suspicious little eyes peering at her out
of their setting of pink lids and dirty white
wool. A couple of young horses outside the
windows tore at the matted creepers on the
walls, or thrust faces that were half-shy,
half-impudent, into the room. Portly pi-
geons waddled to and fro on the broad
window-sill, sometimes flying in to perch
on the picture-frames, while they kept up
incessantly a hoarse and pompous cooing.
Animals and children are, as a rule, alike
destructive to conversation; but Mrs. Knox,
when she chose, bien entendu, could have
made herself agreeable in a Noah's ark, and
Philippa has a gift of sympathetic attention
that personal experience has taught me to
regard with distrust as well as respect, while
it has often made me realise the worldly
wisdom of Kingsley's injunction:
"Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be
clever."
Family prayers, declaimed by Mrs. Knox
with alarming austerity, followed close on
breakfast, Philippa and a vinegar-faced
henchwoman forming the family. The
prayers were long, and through the open
window as they progressed came distandy
a whoop or two; the declamatory tones stag-
Some Experiences
gered a little, and then continued at a dis-
tinctly higher rate of speed.
"Ma'am! Ma'am!" whispered a small
voice at the window.
Mrs. Knox made a repressive gesture and
held on her way. A sudden outcry of hounds
followed, and the owner of the whisper,
a small boy with a face freckled like a tur-
key's tgg^ darted from the window and
dragged a donkey and bath-chair into view.
Philippa admits to having lost the thread
of the discourse, but she thinks that the
"Amen" that immediately ensued can
hardly have come in its usual place. Mrs.
Knox shut the book abruptly, scrambled
up from her knees, and said, "They've
found!"
In a surprisingly short space of time she
had added to her attire her boots, a fur
cape, and a garden hat, and was in the bath-
chair, the small boy stimulating the donkey
with the success peculiar to his class, while
Philippa hung on behind.
The woods of Aussolas are hilly and
extensive, and on that particular morning
it seemed that they held as many foxes as
hounds. In vain was the horn blown and
the whips cracked, small rejoicing parties
of hounds, each with a fox of its own,
scoured to and fro; every labourer in the
vicinity had left his work, and was sedu-
lously heading every fox with yells that
would have befitted a tiger hunt, and sticks
and stones when occasion served.
"Will I pull out as far as the big rosy-
dandhrum, ma'am .f*" inquired the small
boy; "I seen three of the dogs go in it, and
they yowling."
"You will," said Mrs. Knox, thumping
the donkey on the back with her umbrella;
"here! Jeremiah Regan! Come down out of
that with that pitchfork! Do you want to
kill the fox, you fool?"
of an Irish RM. 59
"I do not, your honour, ma'am," re-
sponded Jeremiah Regan, a tall young
countryman, emerging from a bramble
brake.
"Did you sec him.'^" said Mrs. Knos
eagerly.
"I seen himself and his ten pups drink-
ing below at the lake ere yestherday, your
honour, ma'am, and he as big as a chest-
nut horse!" said Jeremiah.
"Faugh! Yesterday!" snorted Mrs. Knox;
"go on to the rhododendrons, Johnny!"
The party, reinforced by Jeremiah and
the pitchfork, progressed at a high rate of
speed along the shrubbery path, encounter-
ing en route Lady Knox, stooping on to her
horse's neck under the sweeping branches
of the laurels.
"Your horse is too high for my coverts.
Lady Knox," said the Lady of the Manor,
with a malicious eye at Lady Knox's flushed
face and dinged hat; "I'm afraid you will
be left behind like Absalom when the
hounds go away!"
"As they never do anything here but
hunt rabbits," retorted her ladyship, "I don't
think that's likely."
Mrs. Knox gave her donkey another
whack, and passed on.
"Rabbits, my dear!" she said scornfully to
Philippa. "That's all she knows about it. I
declare it disgusts me to see a woman of
that age making such a Judy of herself!
Rabbits indeed!"
Down in the thicket of rhododendron
everything was very quiet for a time. Phi-
lippa strained her eyes in vain to see any
of the riders; the horn blowing and the
whip cracking passed on almost out of hear-
ing. Once or twice a hound worked tlirough
the rhododendrons, glanced at the party,
and hurried on, immersed in business. All
6o E. CE Somerville
at once Johnny, the donkey-boy, whispered
excitedly:
"Look at he! Look at he!" and pointed to
a boulder of grey rock that stood out among
the dark evergreens. A big yellow cub was
crouching on it; he instantly slid into the
shelter of the bushes, and die irrepressible
Jeremiah, uttering a rending shriek,
plunged into the diicket after him. Two
or three hounds came rushing at the sound,
and after this Philippa says she finds some
difficulty in recalling the proper order of
events ; chiefly, she confesses, because of the
wholly ridiculous tears of excitement that
blurred her eyes.
"We ran," she said, "we simply tore,
and the donkey galloped, and as for that
old Mrs. Knox, she was giving cracked
screams to the hounds all the time, and they
were screaming too; and then somehow
we were all out on the road!"
What seems to have occurred was that
three couple of hounds, Jeremiah Regan,
and Mrs. Knox's equipage, amongst them
somehow hustled the cub out of Aussolas
demesne and up on to a hill on the farther
side of the road. Jeremiah was sent back
by his mistress to fetch Flurry, and the rest
of the party pursued a thrilling course along
the road, parallel with that of the hounds,
who were hunting slowly through the gorse
on the hillside.
"Upon my honour and word, Mrs. Yeates,
my dear, we have the hunt to ourselves!"
said Mrs. Knox to the panting Philippa, as
they pounded along the road. "Johnny, d'ye
see the fox?"
"I do, ma'am!" shrieked Johnny, who
possessed the usual field-glass vision be-
stowed upon his kind. "Look at him over-
right us on the hill above! Hi! The spotty
dog have him! No, he's gone from him!
Gwan out o that!" This to the donkey.
and Martin Ross
with blows that sounded like the beating
of carpets, and produced rather more dust.
They had left Aussolas some half a mile
behind, when, from a strip of wood on their
right, the fox suddenly slipped over the
bank on to the road just ahead of them, ran
up it for a few yards and whisked in at a
small entrance gate, with the three couple
of hounds yelling on a red-hot scent, not
thirty yards behind. The bath-chair party
whirled in at their heels, Philippa and the
donkey considerably blown, Johnny scarlet
through his freckles, but as fresh as paint,
the old lady blind and deaf to all things
save the chase. The hounds went raging
through the shrubs beside the drive, and
away down a grassy slope towards a shallow
glen, in the bottom of which ran a little
stream, and after them over the grass
bumped the bath-chair. At the stream they
turned sharply and ran up the glen towards
the avenue, which crossed it by means of a
rough stone viaduct.
" 'Pon me conscience, he's into the old
culvert!" exclaimed Mrs. Knox; "there was
one of my hounds choked there once, long
ago! Beat on the donkey, Johnny!"
At this juncture Philippa's narrative again
becomes incoherent, not to say breathless.
She is, however, positive that it was some-
where about here that the upset of the bath-
chair occurred, but she cannot be clear as to
whether she picked up the donkey or Mrs.
Knox, or whether she herself was picked
up by Johnny while Mrs. Knox picked up
the donkey. From my knowledge of Mrs.
Knox I should say she picked up herself
and no one else. At all events, the next
salient point is the palpitating moment
when Mrs. Knox, Johnny, and Philippa
successively applying an eye to the opening
of the culvert by which the stream trickled
under the viaduct, while five dripping
Some Experiences
hounds bayed and leaped around them,
discovered by more senses than that of sight
that the fox was in it, and furthermore that
one of the hounds was in it too.
"There's a sthrong grating before him at
the far end," said Johnny, his head in at
the mouth of the hole, his voice sounding
as if he were talking into a jug, "the two
of them's fighting in it; they'll be choked
surely!"
"Then don't stand gabbling there, you
little fool, but get in and pull the hound
out!" exclaimed Mrs. Knox, who was bal-
ancing herself on a stone in the stream.
"I'd be in dread, ma'am," whined
Johnny.
"Balderdash!" said the implacable Mrs.
Knox. "In with you!"
I understand that Philippa assisted
Johnny into the culvert, and presume that
it was in so doing that she acquired the
two Robinson Crusoe bare footprints
which decorated her jacket when I next
met her.
"Have you got hold of him yet, Johnny .r^"
cried Mrs. Knox up the culvert.
"I have, ma'am, by the tail," responded
Johnny's voice, sepulchral in the depths.
"Can you stir him, Johnny?"
"I cannot, ma'am, and the wather is ris-
ing in it."
"Well, please God, they'll not open the
mill dam!" remarked Mrs. Knox philo-
sophically to Philippa, as she caught hold
of Johnny's dirty ankles. "Hold on to the
tail, Johnny!"
She hauled, with, as might be expected,
no appreciable result. "Run, my dear, and
look for somebody, and we'll have that
fox yet!"
Philippa ran, whither she knew not, pur-
sued by fearful visions of bursting mill-
dams, and maddened foxes at bay. As she
oj an Irish R.M.
6i
sped uj) the avenue she heard voices, robust
male voices, in a shrubbery, and made for
them. Advancing along an embowered
walk towards her was what she Uxjk for
one wild instant to be a funeral; a second
glance showed her that it was a party of
clergymen of all ages, walking by twos
and threes in the dappled shade of the
over-arching trees. Obviously she had in-
truded her sacrilegious presence into a
Clerical Meeting. She acknowledges that at
this awe-inspiring spectacle she faltered,
but the thought of Johnny, the hound, and
the fox, suffocating, possibly drowning to-
gether in the culvert, nerved her. She docs
not remember what she said or how she
said it, but I fancy she must have con-
veyed to them the impression that old Mrs.
Knox was being drowned, as she imme-
diately found herself heading a charge of
the Irish Church towards the scene of dis-
aster.
Fate has not always used me well, but
on this occasion it was mercifully decreed
that I and the other members of the hunt
should be privileged to arrive in time to
see my wife and her rescue party precipi-
tating themselves down the glen.
"Holy Biddy!" ejaculated Flurry, "is she
running a paper-chase with all the parsons ?
But look! For pity's sake will you look at
my grandmother and my Uncle Eustace?"
Mrs. Knox and her sworn enemy the
old clergyman, whom I had met at dinner
the night before, were standing, appar-
ently in the stream, tugging at t\vo bare
legs that projected from a hole in the via-
duct, and arguing at the top of dieir voices.
The bath-chair lay on its side widi the
donkey grazing beside it, on the bank a
stout Archdeacon was tendering advice,
and the hounds danced and howled round
the entire group.
62 E. CE Somerville
"I tell you, Eliza, you had better let the
Archdeacon try," thundered Mr. Hamil-
ton.
"Then I tell you I will not!" vociferated
Mrs. Knox, with a tug at the end of the
sentence that elicited a subterranean lament
from Johnny. "Now who was right about
the second grating? I told you so twenty
years ago
Exactly as Philippa and her rescue party
arrived, the efforts of Mrs. Knox and her
and Martin Ross
brother-in-law triumphed. The struggling,
sopping form of Johnny was slowly drawn
from the hole, drenched, speechless, but
clinging to the stern of a hound, who, in
its turn, had its jaws fast in the hind-
quarters of a limp, yellow cub.
"Oh, it's dead! wailed Philippa, "I did
think I should have been in time to save
it!"
"Well, if that doesn't beat all!" said Dr.
Hickey.
SAKI (H. H. MUNRO 1870-1916)
Esme
jrrnn THE SHORT STORIES OF SAKI
Certainly no writer can be so sadistic with such complete nonchalance
as H. H. Munro. The reader, horrified by the situations laid be j ore him,
is, at the same time, so amused by the inanity of the dialogue and the
lampooning of familiar types of British society, that he forgets his horror
in laughter, Esme, strictly speaking, isn't about horses at all, but it is a
fox-hunting story and, as Saki himself says, ''it isn't a bit liJ^e any you've
ever heard!"
" 'Unting is the sport of kings, the image of
war without its guilt and only five and twenty
percent of its danger!"
— JORROCKS
All hunting stories are the same/'
/^\ said Clovis; "just as all Turf
-A- JV stories are the same, and all — "
"My hunting story isn't a bit like any
you've ever heard," said the Baroness. "It
happened quite a while ago, when I was
about twenty-three. I wasn't living apart
from my husband then; you see, neither
of us could afford to make the other a sep-
arate allowance. In spite of everything that
proverbs may say, poverty keeps together
more homes than it breaks up. But we al-
ways hunted with different packs. All this
has nothing to do with the story."
"We haven't arrived at the meet yet. I
suppose there was a meet," said Clovis.
"Of course there was a meet," said the
Baroness; "all the usual crowd were there,
especially Constance Broddle. Constance is
one of those strapping florid girls that go
so well with autumn scenery or Christmas
decorations in church. *I feel a presenti-
ment that something dreadful is going to
happen,' she said to me; 'am I looking
pale.f^'
"She was looking about as pale as a
beetroot that has suddenly heard bad
news.
" 'You're looking nicer than usual/ I
said, 'but that's so easy for you.' Before she
had got the right bearings of this remark
we had settled down to business; hounds
63
64
Sa{i (H.
had found a fox lying out in some gorse-
bushes."
*'I knew it," said Clovis; "in every fox-
hunting story that Tve ever heard there's
been a fox and some gorse-bushes."
".Constance and I were well mounted,"
continued the Baroness serenely, "and we
had no difficulty in keeping ourselves in
the first flight, though it was a fairly stiff
run. Towards the finish, however, we must
have held rather too independent a line,
for we lost die hounds, and found ourselves
plodding aimlessly along miles away from
anywhere. It was fairly exasperating, and
my temper was beginning to let itself go
by inches, when on pushing our way
through an accommodating hedge we
were gladdened by the sight of hounds in
full cry in a hollow just beneath us.
" 'There they go,' cried Constance, and
then added in a gasp, 'In Heaven's name,
what are they hunting?'
"It was certainly no mortal fox. It stood
more than twice as high, had a short, ugly
head, and an enormous thick neck.
'"It's a hyaena,' I cried; 'it must have
escaped from Lord Pabham's Park.'
"At that moment the hunted beast
turned and faced its pursuers, and the
hounds (there were only about six couple
then) stood round in a half-circle and
looked foolish. Evidently they had broken
away from the rest of the pack on the trail
of this alien scent, and were not quite sure
how to treat their quarry now they had
got him.
"The hyaena hailed our approach with
unmistakable relief and demonstrations of
friendliness. It had probably been accus-
tomed to uniform kindness from humans,
while its first experience of a pack of
hounds had left a bad impression. The
hounds looked more than ever embar-
H. Munro)
rassed as their quarry paraded its sudden
intimacy with us, and the faint toot of a
horn in the distance was seized on as a
welcome signal for unobtrusive departure.
Constance and I and the hyaena were left
alone in the gathering twilight.
" 'What are we to do.?' asked Constance.
" 'What a person you are for questions,'
I said.
" 'Well, we can't stay here all night with
a hyaena,' she retorted.
" 'I don't know what your ideas of com-
fort are,' I said; 'But I shouldn't think of
staying here all night even without a
hyaena. My home may be an unhappy one,
but at least it has hot and cold water laid
on, and domestic service, and other con-
veniences which we shouldn't find here.
We had better make for that ridge of trees
to the right; I imagine the Crowley road
is just beyond.'
"We trotted off slowly along a faintly
marked cart-track, with the beast following
cheerfully at our heels.
" 'What on earth are we to do with the
hyaena?' came the inevitable question.
" 'What does one generally do with
hyaenas?" I asked crossly.
" 'I've never had anything to do with one
before,' said Constance.
" 'Well, neither have I. If we even knew
its sex we might give it a name. Perhaps
we might call it Esme. That would do in
either case.'
"There was still sufficient daylight for
us to distinguish wayside objects, and our
listless spirits gave an upward perk as we
came upon a small half-naked gipsy brat
picking blackberries from a low-growing
bush. The sudden apparition of two horse-
women and a hyaena set it off crying, and
in any case we should scarcely have gleaned
any useful geographical information from
The Short Stories of Saf{i
that source; but there was a probabiHty
that we might strike a gipsy encampment
somewhere along our route. We rode on
hopefully but uneventfully for another mile
or so.
"*I wonder what that child was doing
there,' said Constance presently.
" Ticking blackberries, obviously.'
" 'I don't like the way it cried,' pursued
Constance; ^somehow its wail , keeps
ringing in my ears.'
"1 did not chide Constance for her mor-
bid fancies; as a matter of fact the same
sensation, of being pursued by a persistent
fretful wail, had been forcing itself on my
rather overtired nerves. For company's sake
I hulloed to Esme, who had lagged some-
what behind. With a few springy bounds
he drew up level, and then shot past us.
"The wailing accompaniment was ex-
plained. The gipsy child was firmly, and
I expect painfully, held in his jaws.
" ^Merciful Heaven!' screamed Con-
stance, Vhat on earth shall we do.f^ What
are we to do?'
"I am perfectly certain that at the Last
Judgment Constance will ask more ques-
tions than any of the examining Seraphs.
" *Can't we do something?' she persisted
tearfully, as Esme cantered easily along in
front of our tired horses.
"Personally I was doing everything that
occurred to me at the moment. I stormed
and scolded and coaxed in English and
French and gamekeeper language; I made
absurd, ineffectual cuts in the air with my
thongless hunting-crop; I hurled my sand-
wich case at the brute; in fact, I really
don't know what more I could have done.
And still we lumbered on through the
deepening dusk, with that dark uncouth
shape lumbering ahead of us, and a drone
of lugubrious music floating in our cars.
Suddenly Esme bounded aside into some
thick bushes, where wc could not follow;
the wail rose to a shriek and then stopped
altogether. This part of the story I always
hurry over, because it is really rather hor-
rible. When the beast joined us again, after
an absence of a few minutes, there was an
air of patient understanding about him,
as though he knew that he had done some-
thing of which we disapproved, but which
he felt to be thoroughly justifiable.
" 'How can you let that ravening beast
trot by your side?' asked Constance. She
was looking more than ever like an albino
beetroot.
" 'In the first place, I can't prevent it,'
I said, 'and in the second place, whatever
else he may be, I doubt if he's ravening at
the present moment.'
"Constance shuddered. 'Do you think the
poor little thing suffered much?' came an-
other of her futile questions.
" 'The indications were all that way,' I
said; 'on the other hand, of course, it may
have been crying from sheer temper. Chil-
dren sometimes do.'
"It was nearly pitch-dark when we
emerged suddenly into the high road. A
flash of lights and the whir of a motor
went past us at the same moment at un-
comfortably close quarters. A thud and a
sharp screeching yell followed a second
later. The car drew up, and when I had
ridden back to the spot I found a young
man bending over a dark motionless mass
lying by the roadside.
" 'You have killed my Esme/ I exclaimed
bitterly.
" 'I'm so awfully sorry,' said the young
man; 'I keep dogs myself, so I know what
you must feel about it. I'll do anything I
can in reparation.'
66 Sa\i (H.
"Tleasc bury him at once,' I said; *that
much I think I may ask of you.'
" 'Bring the spade, Wilham/ he called
to the chauffeur. Evidently hasty roadside
interments were contingencies that had
been provided against.
"The digging of a sufficiently large grave
took some little time. 'I say, what a mag-
nificent fellow,' said the motorist as the
corpse was rolled over into the trench.
I'm afraid he must have been rather a
valuable animal.'
" 'He took second in the puppy class at
Birmingham last year,' I said resolutely.
"Constance snorted loudly.
"'Don't cry, dear,' I said brokenly; 'it
was all over in a moment. He couldn't
have suffered much.'
" 'Look here,' said the young fellow des-
perately, 'you simply must let me do some-
thing by way of reparation.'
"I refused sweetly, but as he persisted
I let him have my address.
"Of course, we kept our own counsel as
to the earlier episodes of the evening. Lord
Pabham never advertised the loss of his
H. Mttnro)
hyaena; when a strictly fruit-eating animal
strayed from his park a year or two previ-
ously he was called upon to give compensa-
tion in eleven cases of sheep-worrying and
practically to re-stock his neighbours'
poultry-yards, and an escaped hyaena would
have mounted up to something on the scale
of a Government grant. The gipsies were
equally unobtrusive over their missing off-
spring; I don't suppose in large encamp-
ments they really know to a child or two
how many they've got."
The Baroness paused reflectively, and
then continued:
"There was a sequel to the adventure,
though. I got through the post a charming
little diamond brooch, with the name
Esme set in a sprig of rosemary. Incident-
ally, too, I lost the friendship of Constance
Broddle. You see, when I sold the brooch
I quite properly refused to give her any
share of the proceeds. I pointed out that
the Esme part of the affair was my own
invention, and the hyaena part of it be-
longed to Lord Pabham, if it really was his
hyaena, of which, of course, I've no proof."
JOHN WOODCOCK GRAVES (1795-1886)
John Peel
Surely this is the best known as well as the most loved of all hunting
songs. It has become a part of the folkjore not only of England, but also
of America. Our schoolchildren in dusty classrooms, who would be
hard put to say what is meant by "view-hollo," shout it forth with as
much gusto as though the sound of a hunting-horn were common-
place in the busy city streets. Vox-hunting, for the moment, is much
curtailed, but ]ohn Feel winds his horn as lustily as ever and will continue
to do so.
D'ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay?
D'ye ken John Peel at the break of day?
D'ye ken John Peel when he's far, far away,
With his hounds and his horn in the morning ?
'Tu/as the sound of his horn called me from
my bed.
And the cry of his hounds has me oft-times
led.
For Peel's View-hollo would wa\en the
dead,
Or a fox from his lair in the morning.
D'ye ken that bitch whose tongue is death?
D'ye ken her sons of peerless faith?
D'ye ken that fox with his last breath
Cursed them all as he died in the morning?
Yes, I ken John Peel and Ruby too
Ranter and Royal and Bellman as true;
From the drag to the chase, from the chase to
the view,
From a view to the death in the morning.
And I've followed John Peel both often and
far
O'er the rasper-fence and the gate and the bar,
From Low Denton Holme up to Scratchmere
Scar,
When we vied for the brush in the morning.
Then here's to John Peel with my heart and
soul.
Come fill — fill to him another strong bowl:
And we'll follow John Peel through fair and
through foul.
While we're waked by his horn in the morn-
ing.
'Twas the sound of his horn called me from
my bed.
And the cry of his hounds has me oft-times
led,
For Peel's View-hollo would wal^en the
dead
Or a fox from his lair in the morning.
67
GORDON GRAND (contemporary)
Cub Hunting en Famille
from THE SILVER HORN
With some writers one feels that their love of or interest in horses is
frojn the outside, but with Gordoft Grand one \7iows that horses and
hunting must he a very integral fart of his everyday life, I chose Cub
Hunting en Famille because it has to do with a little discussed phase
of the hu7iting world, the ma\ing, not of the horse, but of the rider
and to what agony the bystanders are put during this making! Let no
fond parent, lacking a sense of humor, read this tale!
"Your head and your heart... keep up!
Your hands and your heels . . . keep down!
Your knees press into your horse's sides,
Your elbows into your own!"
— OLD ENGLISH ADAGE
eeing the ColoneFs horse van going
out of his driveway, I asked him
whether he was acquiring a new
horse or shipping one away. "It's going
over to Pettibone Lithgow's," he said.
Pettibone is one of the best-hearted people
alive and we are deservedly fond of him
but he does not possess a vestige of horse
sense.
"Pendleton, have you ever stopped to
consider what a mass of detailed informa-
tion one acquires pertaining to horses?
Why even were I able to extract it I
couldn't reduce within the covers of ten
volumes the sum total of v^hat any one of
a thousand knowledgeable horsemen
knows. Such information is only released
from the confines of one's memory when
a situation develops requiring its use. And
no man knows more than an infinitesimal
part of what is to be learned.
"Yet here is our friend Pettibone good
naturedly smiling and romping along, en-
dangering his family and his friends and
not knowing what it's all about. It is com-
mon knowledge that he is going to hurt,
kill or maim one or both of these children
of his if he continues in over-mounting
68
Cub Hunting
them on ovcr-fcd, over-bred, under-worked
and under-schooled horses.
"Mrs. Lithgow came over to see me
about it. She says they haven't a horse on
the place fit for the children to ride, al-
though Pettibone has spent a pot of money
trying to mount them. She is fairly dis-
traught about that play-boy husband of
hers.
"I have loaned them Lord Autumn for
one of the children. I think the old fellov^
w^ill enjoy the job.
*'What a time Pettibone must have had
tw^o weeks ago on the morning we started
cubbing. Enid Ashley has pieced her inter-
pretation of the events together. Wait until
I read her account to you."
CUB HUNTING en FAMILLE
Chapter I
An opulent office at 14 Wall Street, New
York. A conference of people of import-
ance. It is four o'clock on a Friday after-
noon in early September.
J. Pettibone Lithgow: "Gentlemen, I
must ask you to excuse me. I must run for
my train. Tomorrow is the opening of our
cubbing season. It is an event I look for-
ward to with keen relish. We are taking
our children for their first hunt, and we
all place great import on the occasion. It
is indeed many years since I have looked
forward to anything with such genuine
relish. I return to town on Monday morn-
ing, and will meet with you any time dur-
ing the week. Good day, gentlemen."
Chapter II
A so-called simple hunting lodge with
eleven bathrooms, and service and embel-
lishments to match. Dinner is being served.
en Famille
69
J. Pettibone Lithgow: "Well, children,
tomorrow will be the big day. I feel just
as I did when I was your age and it was
the night before Christmas. Now, then,
what are we all going to ride? First, there
is Mother. What about Big Brother?"
Chorus: "Yes, yes. He's an old dear. He's
top hole."
Pettibone Lithgow: "Well, how about it.
Mother?"
Mrs. J. Pettibone Lithgow: '*I love to ride
the old fellow, but do so dislike bustling
him up and down these rocky wood rides
in the cubbing country. They are abomin-
able coverts."
Pettibone Lithgow: "That's all right.
We won't go hard. Remember this is the
children's first day to hounds. What for
Lillian? Withington says that Lady Conna
and Shinto are going perfectly, and Lillian
has been riding both of them. Which one
will it be, old girl?"
Lillian Lithgow (aged 12) : "Oh, Dad, I
want Shinto, He is so cute over his fences."
Pettibone Lithgow: "Then that leaves
Pettibone and the Old Man. My boy, what
do you think will carry you to fame and
honor tomorrow?"
Pettibone Lithgow, Jr. (aged 14): "I
would like very much to try Aunt Agnes. I
have been jumping her a lot and we get on
fine."
Pettibone Lithgow: "Well, I will ride
Hecanhopit. This will be our tenth season
together." (To Butler) "Ask Withington
to see me in the library in half an hour.
It's time you kiddies turned in. All hands
up at 4:45. No stealing of cat naps, re-
member." (Children leave the room. To
Wife) "My dear, this is an event I have
been looking forward to ever since the
children were born. My day dreams have
centered on pictures of us all spending long
70
Gordon Grand
days together in the hunting field. Count-
less times I have pictured you and the two
kiddies mounted on truly confidential
horses drifting across an autumn landscape.
You know, dear, I have worked pretty
hard in a highly competitive field, and this
thing tomorrow morning is one of my
major rewards."
Chapter III
4:55 a.m.
Pettibone, Jr.: ''Mother, I can't find my
jodhpurs, and Mary is not awake so I can't
ask her, and Lillie says one of her riding
shoes is gone, and she says she remembers
the puppy was playing with it, and do you
think he could have run off with it.''"
Mrs. Lithgow: "It's too bad you children
could not have found your things before
you went to bed. I will be there in a
minute."
Mr. Lithgow : *'My dear, I wonder where
those special hunting spectacles could be.
I haven't seen them since last fall. It is get-
ting late. We must hurry."
Pettibone, Jr.: "Moth-er (louder) Moth-er
—(louder still) MOTH-ER— Where is the
hunting crop Uncle Harry gave me for
Christmas.^"
Mr. Pettibone Lithgow (calling from the
dining room): "We must hurry. Breakfast
is on the table."
Mrs. Lithgow: "John, I can't hurry. The
children can't find half their things, and
I'm not nearly ready. Such an hour to get
children up."
(Mr. L. drinks his coffee and fidgets.
Family assembles in the breakfast room,
Mrs. L. looking a bit frayed and dis-
traught.)
Mr. L.: "I will hack to the Meet with
the children, and Mother, you come in the
car. Come along, children."
(They go out to the stable, mount and
start. An exceedingly warm sultry morn-
ing. Shinto, feeling high, makes a modest
buck.
Mr. L.: "There now Lillie, there goes
your hat the first thing. Don't dismount.
That horse is so high — ^you will have
trouble remounting. Pettibone, pop off and
yet your sister's hat. That's a good chap.
I'll hold Aunt Agnes/' (Holds horse which
dribbles and slobbers half-consumed sugar
on the knee of a new pair of fawn breeches.
They walk up on the side of a cement road.
At the corner they meet other riders. Lillie
permits Shinto to walk up on the heels of
a fidgety mare who lets fly, just missing
Lillie's leg.)
Mr. L.: "Lillie for gracious sake keep
your horse back. You should know better
than that. Pray excuse my daughter, Mrs.
Turnturtle. She has been told not to ride
on top of people. Pettibone, will you keep
off that slippery cement! How many times
have you been told to keep on the side of
the road. Press your Aunt Agnes on the
ribs with your left heel and bring her over."
(A particularly noisy truck approaches
from the rear. Horses in front commence
to fidget. Truck passes with a roar. Aunt
Agnes make a moderate flying jump to the
right. Steps in hidden ditch and pecks. Ji
Pettibone Lithgow, Jr. topples over her
shoulder and lets go of reins. A groom
catches mare, puts boy up and receives a
dollar. Pettibone's face and collar are
smeared. Mr. Lithgow is hot and becoming
twitchy. Arrive at Meet. Renews many old
acquaintanceships. Introduces children.
Rather proud of them, but wishes boy did
not look so mussy. Spirits temporarily re-
vived. Mrs. L. arrives. Finds her horse for
Cub Hunting
her. Puts her up. No coordination. Starts
to count three. She does not wait for count.
Never will for some reason. Comes near
throwing her clean over the side saddle.
Mob of people looking on. Mrs. L. a bit
peeved. Busies himself adjusting balance
strap. Hounds move off. Wishes all mem-
bers of the family would stay together.
There is Lillie away up in front, riding
with loose reins and letting her horse
crowd upon everybody. May get kicked.
Would like to call out to her, but hates to
bellow like that.)
Mrs. L.: "I'm sorry, John, but the saddle
is resting right on Big Brothers withers. I
really should have a sheepskin."
Mr. L.: "Well, Shinto is the only horse
out with a sheepskin. I will get it for you."
(Weaves way up front. Locates Lillie and
pulls to side of road. When the field has
passed, he takes sheepskin from Shinto and
puts it on Big Brother, Gets very warm and
feels mussy.
(Family jiggle jaggles down the road.
Aunt Agnes determined to catch up with
field, commences to yaw, and it is evident
boy cannot hold her. Gets horse stopped,
dismounts and starts to tighten curb. Mare
makes quick turn of head and breaks brim
of new hunting derby. Mounts and they
proceed. Footprints show that field has en-
tered a meadow. Wishes they might have
been with the field so that some one else
might have slipped the rails. Dismounts
and slips three obdurate chestnut rails.
Shinto in exuberance jumps three feet over
the bars and bucks on landing. Lillie loses
hat and one stirrup but stays on. Picks up
hat and tries to hand it to daughter, but
horse will not let him approach. With
mounting irritation crams hat in pocket
and goes back to build up barway. Mounts
and they start across meadow. Feels in
en Famille 71
{xxkct for gloves. Can only find one, new
pair, hates riding without gloves. Goes
back to barway but can't find other glove.
Begins to feel all on edge. Sees the field at
end of meadow against fringe of woods.
Hears hounds open and sees field disappear
up wood ride. Suggest they all jog. Try to
jog but horses very keen and start canter-
ing and continually going faster in spite
of his protests and volley of instructions.
They start up wood road, turn corner, and
come upon whole field galloping towards
them. A moment of awful suspense — Ex-
horts family to do this and that. Pulls
Hecanhopit up so short that Mrs. L. plows
into him. Bellows to Lillie to stop her
horse which she does with horse standing
clear across the ride. Huntsman forces his
way between Shinto's quarters and oak
tree by lifting both legs high in air. Entire
field stewing, mulling, steaming, and try-
ing to get by and on. L. gets excited and
says, "Pettibone, I wish you would kick
your Aunt Agnes in the ribs, and make
her move over," upon which a passing wag
mutters something which irritates yet em-
phasizes the inappropriateness of the
horse's name. The field passes on. Family
reorganizes and follows on. Upon reaching
meadow they turn right-handed and start
up another ride. Set of bars just ahead.
Mrs. L. charges. Big Brother refuses. Mrs.
L. within an ace of flopping off on near
side. The affair gives him quite a turn.
Pettibone, Jr. pleads to give Mother a lead.
Charges. Mare stands away and makes an
unexpectedly big jump. Pettibone Jr. lands
on rear of saddle, losing left stirrup and
reins, and so disappears round turn. What
in the world will happen to the boy? He
tells wife and daughter to wait. Sends
Hecanhopit along at fence. Overtakes boy
Gordon Grand
who is quite intact. Boy tries to explain.
L. very short with his heir. Returns to bar-
way. Mrs. L. and daughter navigate jump
very creditably. All hands hasten up die
ride. Can hear hounds away up towards
top of ridge. They keep plugging along,
turning now right, now left, through a
maze of paths. They can detect no foot-
prints. Which way has field gone? Mount-
ing a slight swale they hear hounds com-
ing right at them. Stop their horses. Know
only too well diat Huntsman, M.F.H.,
and field will be along directly, and they
will be accused of heinous crimes. Hounds
come on with a gorgeous burst of voice
and come right up to where they are all
huddled. Their horses must be standing on
and soiling the very line of the hunted fox.
Mr. Pettibone Lithgow would give half he
possessed to be any place else in the world.
Hounds' heads go up. There is not a whim-
per to be heard. If only one hound would
go over them, under them, around them,
and find the line and go on. Would he
dare exhort them and try and cast them.f^
Takes a chance — removes new hat with
broken rim — waves hounds on — Hoick —
Hoick — Hoick — Hoick forrard, indicating
the supposed line. His voice sounds odd
and unfamiliar. Hears horses galloping
back of him. Looks. Huntsman appears,
closely followed by M.F.H. and entire field.
The family completely surrounded by
hounds. Mr. L. starts to move away.)
M.F.H.: "Hold hard. Sir, hold hard. You
have either turned this fox, or at least
have all heads in the air. Let the hounds
hunt the fox. That's what they are for. You
can't catch him with your hands."
(Whole family upset. Children take it
very seriously. Mr. L. believes the worst is
over — when the wood resounds with pitiful
lamentations. Aunt Agnes has kicked a
hound.)
The M.F.H.: "What horse has kicked
that hound .f^"
Mr. L.: "It was my son's mare. She is an
experienced hunter and never did such a
thing before."
(M.F.H. says nothing and rides on. A
hound feathers a short way down the slope
— opens — is honored by the pack, and the
field moves on.)
Mrs. L.: "John, I really have quite a
headache. If you don't mind I think I will
pull out."
Mr. L.: "Well, my dear, I think we have
had enough for our first day out."
ISABEL SCOTT RORICK (contemporary)
Just Cause
jrom MR. AND MRS. CUGAT
What Mr. Munro does to the "English Hunting Set'' in Esme, Isabel
Scott RoricI{ ta\es pleasure in doing to their American counterparts,
though in a much less malicious fashion. Just Cause will appeal even
more strongly to the ''non-horsey" audience than to those who may find
the portrait a little too real to be funny \ This is also one of the very
few stories concerning horses in which ''love' plays a parti
D
id Cory get home today as
planned?" asked Mrs. Cugat, as
she and Mr. Cugat sat down to
dinner one early spring evening.
"My, yes," replied Mr. Cugat in the fond,
indulgent tone which any reference to this
Damon to his Pythias invariably provoked.
"And is he full of himself! If the trip did
old Lady Bonbright half the good it did
him — she's good for another twenty years."
"Well, I'm glad he got something out of
it," Mrs. Cugat said tenderly. "Not many
men, who like a good time as much as he
does, would be willing to spend a whole
month taking a cruise with a sick old aunt
— particularly a poor aunt. It was the sweet-
est thing I ever heard of! Did he have
any fun at 2&.V
"I don't know — ^he's brown as a berry
and beaming all over." Then he added
thoughtfully, "He's coming over after din-
ner — he says he's got something to tell us."
"Something to tell us ?"
"Yes," said Mr. Cugat uneasily. "You
don't suppose, do you — ?"
"Good Heavens — of course! He's got
himself engaged again!"
"He shows all the regular symptoms,"
admitted Mr. Cugat somberly.
Cory, arriving immediately at the con-
clusion of dinner, came in almost bashfully.
He showed all the regular symptoms, Mrs.
Cugat thought wryly, and then a few. He
positively shone, and had a smily, secret
look that could have been spotted across
the street.
"Darling, how well you look!" she ex-
claimed, kissing him warmly. "Sit down
and tell us everything — we want to hear
it all."
73
74
Isabel Scott Roric\
"Well/' said Mr. Carnvright, clearing
his throat and beginning to tack nervously
back and forth across the room with his
hands in his pockets, "it was pretty swell."
"What's she look like?" offered Mrs.
Cugat helpfully.
He turned a deep garnet and grinned
gratefully. "Like a goddess/' he said
huskily.
"Not old Liberty?" flippantly interposed
Mr. Cugat to cover his anxiety. "Myself, I
think the type a little heavy — "
"No, seriously, you two," said Cory,
"this is the real thing at last. I want you to
be the first to know. Look!" And with
trembling fingers he produced a white vel-
vet, gold-tooled box from his coat pocket,
which he opened to display a really superb
ruby.
"Why, Cory, it's lovely!" breathed Mrs.
Cugat in actual awe. "What a lucky girl
she is ! Now stop fooling and answer a few
questions." But she could not begin her
catechism, of course, until Mr. Cugat had
got through devoutly voiced congratula-
tions; they had each taken a good poke at
the other to clear the air, and then Mr.
Cugat exclaimed, "How about a drink to
the bride!" This had all happend once or
twice before, so she waited patiently.
"Now, then, tell me!" she demanded, as
Mr. Cugat hastened to the pantry.
"Well, her name's Claiborne Calhoun
and I met her on the boat and she's a
blonde and from Virginia and she was tak-
ing the cruise to get over a fall she had
off a horse," replied Cory, making an ob-
vious effort to stick to bare informative
facts and not panegyrize any more than he
could help. "She looks sort of like you,
Liz — aristocratic-like — only she's taller and
more wholesome-looking — I mean, you
know — a little more the athletic type."
"Why, darling, she sounds lovely!" Mrs.
Cugat exclaimed generously; "just the kind
I'd always hoped you'd find. Did you meet
the family?"
"No, she had only 'Birdie' along to look
after her — 'Birdie's' sort of an ex-govern-
ess. But I'm going down there this week-
end. — It's marvelous at this time of year
and we're going to announce it on a hunt
or something. Claiborne's joint master of
the Old Commonwealth."
They proceeded to drink toasts: to the
bride and to the Old Commonwealth and
to the S.S, American Manufacturer and to
Cape Hatteras — off which, in a severe blow,
realization of Cory's worth had come to
Claiborne — and to "Birdie" and to old lady
Bonbright, who, fortuitously, had re-
mained bedded with lumbago from the
second day out.
"Well," said Mrs. Cugat, as they finally
closed the front door on Cory's by then,
dreamy countenance, "I really believe she's
very suitable."
"She sounds all right, at that," acknowl-
edged Mr. Cugat. Then he added anxiously,
"I hope you two get on."
"Oh, we will," Mrs. Cugat yawned,
"don't worry about that. I'd do anything
to see Cory settled down and happy with
the right girl, and this time I have a feeling
everything's going to turn out well." Mr.
Cugat kissed her tenderly and they climbed
the stairs, rather spent.
A week later they got a midnight tele-
gram. "Announcing it Saturday. Need
you. Cory," it said tersely. Mr. Cugat,
huddled in his bathrobe, read it frowning
and rubbed his chin.
"He sounds sort of desperate," Mrs.
Cugat commented, peering out anxiously
from under her quilt. "Do you suppose
everything's all right?"
Mr. and
"I don't know. Would you like to go?
We could drive down for the week-end.
It might be a pretty nice trip.'*
"Oh, rd love it!" she cried. "What fun!"
and dove beneath the quilt again to begin
planning her clothes.
It was a nice trip. They left on Thursday
— unprecedented for Mr. Cugat, who was
wont to say that his week-ends began Sat-
urday noon — stayed the night at a country
hotel and drove leisurely on the next morn-
ing over clear sunny roads through snow-
patched mountains.
"What a lovely part of the country to
live in," murmured Mrs. Cugat, smiling in
pleasure as they passed a rolling field
dappled with horses, a sun-splashed ravine,
and a tiny brass-knockered house behind an
old stone wall. "Maybe, since Claiborne
likes to hunt, Cory will have a place down
here and we can come to visit often."
"Maybe," said Mr. Cugat, committing
himself to nothing yet. "You know, we
ought to be almost there — the Calhoun
place should be just east of that last town
we came through. We'd better stop and
ask."
"All right," she said, "the next man we
see — " and then: "Oh, darling, be careful!
Those sweet dogs — " They had rounded a
turn in the narrow road and come abruptly
upon a small meandering pack of hounds
in the charge of a shambling individual in
a long white coat. He carried a hunting-
whip which he was flicking with all the
unconcern possible, but, as the lash seemed
possessed to wrap itself around his neck,
the effect lacked nonchalance. Hearing the
Cugats' car, he tucked the whip hastily un-
derneath his arm and shooed the pack off
the road with tlie long skirts of tlie coat
— like an old woman shooing chickens
with her apron.
Mrs. Cugat y^
"Can you tell us the way to the Calhoun
place?" called Mr. Cugat, drawing to a
stop, and the figure turned. ''Cory, you old
son-of-a-gun!"
It was, in truth, Mr. Cartwright, but Mrs.
Cugat was shocked at the change in him.
His face looked drawn and actually surly.
This expression, however, as he looked up
was washed away almost immediately by
one of clear and touching joy.
"Hel/o/'' he yel|x:d, dropping the whip
at the bottom of the ditch and scrambling
up the bank to the car. "I'd hardly dared
hope for you before dinnertime!"
"There go your dogs!" exclaimed Mr.
Cugat, pointing to a mass of wriggling
sterns disappearing over a wall.
"Let 'em go; they know their way home
better than I do, anyway. Move over, let
me in — Gosh, but it's good to see you two!"
"Where's Claiborne?" queried Mrs.
Cugat, "and what are you doing mooching
along 'way out here with all those dogs?"
"Hounds, pet, call them hounds. Never
dogs. These are the lady hounds, and all
about to become mothers. I have to take
them for a damned walk every morning!"
Then he added shortly, "Claiborne's at the
kennels."
He settled down between them and,
lighting a cigarette, relaxed gratefully.
"Turn to the left at the next crossroads,"
he said; "and don't hurry."
They drove along, happy together in the
sharp, misty morning, but Cory seemed to
have very little to say. Pretty soon they
turned through wide gates and wound be-
tween rail fences. A fat white horse rolled
and kicked in the sun; a brown mare with
her leggy black baby trotted over to watch
them pass; Mrs. Cugat was enchanted.
"Oh, Cory," she exclaimed, "what a per-
fectly beautiful place! Don't you love it?
76
Isabel Scott Roric^
When I think of the country around home !
Nothing but tractors, signboards, barbed
wire, hot-dog stands — "
"Uh-huh," said Cory.
The house, when they reached it, sent
Mrs. Cugat into further transports. Its
porches were traditionally pillared, and
vine-fringed balconies hung from upper
windows; the door stood hospitably open
to reveal delicate soaring stairs and a bright
fire; an old colored man in a plum-colored
coat with flat silver buttons hobbled down
to open the luggage compartment.
"Make yourselves at home," said Cory
when they'd reached their charming be-
ruffled bedroom. "I'm going to take a bath
and get this stink off."
"What's the matter with him?" asked
Mrs. Cugat when the door had closed. "He
seems sort of grouchy."
"I don't know," said Mr. Cugat slowly.
Miss Claiborne Calhoun looked exactly
like a goddess — one of those blonde north-
country ones. She came striding up from
the direction of the kennels, expertly crack-
ing her hunting-whip, just as Mr. and Mrs.
Cugat emerged onto the porch after un-
packing and changing into their best coun-
trv clothes. Not once did the lash wind
round her neck. She was dressed in
breeches and canvas leggins and had on a
filthy long white coat like Cory's, but Mrs.
Cugat could notice nothing but her head,
which was small and gilt and superbly set
on her boyishly broad shoulders. Her eyes
were the color of larkspur and had a level
look, and her brown forehead was not fem-
ininely rounded but in beautifully mod-
eled planes like a man's. She looked very
wholesome. She made Mrs. Cugat, in spite
of her new tweed suit, feel like a nasty,
curvesome little Dresden shepherdess.
"Welcome to Green Trees," she said in a
clear light voice and a buttoned-up British
accent. "Have you managed to make your-
selves comfortable .f^" She gripped their
hands with cool, strong fingers and then
called through the front door: "Enos!
Enos! Where's Mr. Clay.?"
"Yes'm, Miz Claiborne. Mist' Clay, he's
out in the dinin'-room fixin' a toddy,"
gobbled the old negro with the plum coat,
hastening into view. "Mistuh Cartwright,
tho', he just took himself a stiff peg and
went right back up to his room ag'in."
Miss Calhoun laughed lightly. "Take a
toddy up to him, Enos," she said amusedly;
"he doesn't think he wants lunch." At that
moment a long-nosed young man in a sag-
ging and sun-faded tweed coat and worn
breeches and boots emerged from the din-
ing-room carrying five toddies on a tray.
"The Cugats, Clay. This is Clay Lowrie,
the better half of the Old Commonwealth."
Mr. Lowrie acknowledged the introduc-
tions and put the tray down. "What was
the matter with Cartwright, Cal.?" he
asked curiously. "He looked like he was
goin' to be sick."
"He ti'as sick," she replied, with a little
underlying scorn in her tone, "on the
pumphouse floor." Then she went on,
laughing: "Melody whelped last night —
ten — and all rather small — and Cory and I
had just looked them over and gone out on
the stoop to sit in the sun when out came
Leighton after us with the runt and two
others he didn't want and snapped their
heads against a wheelbarrow. Poor Cory;
after all, he had only just left off mooing
and poking at the runt because he thought
it showed personality or something. Leigh-
ton ought, really, be a little more con-
siderate of guests, I think."
Mr. Lowrie smiled thinly. "Cartwright
Mr. and
will have to get used to our 11*1' ways,'*
he said.
Mrs. Cugat drank deeply of her toddy.
"I think I'll go take a look at him," said
Mr. Cugat, getting up abruptly.
Cory appeared for lunch, looking pale,
but dressed in extremely beautiful and very
new riding-clothes. "Your boot garters are
on backwards, my love," Miss Calhoun re-
marked, giving him a cool glance over her
soup. Then she went on to explain to Mrs.
Cugat about her mother and father. They
lived in Washington, she said, when they
weren't in London, but, as for her, she
couldn't swallow New Deal Washington.
She and "Birdie," when they weren't in
London, lived here at Green Trees.
"Birdie's somewhere about," Miss Calhoun
said carelessly. "Probably fussing over the
announcement party tonight. I left it all
to her — I can't think of anything but My
Lady Satin. Clay, I've decided to breed
her!"
"Well! You came to it at last, eh.? That
mare's been navicular for six months, but
you just wouldn't admit she was through."
"I know — I couldn't bear to — my own
lovely Satin — " Miss Calhoun's clear, crisp
voice had taken on an entirely new note —
roughened and warm.
"What are you sendin' her to.f^" Mr.
Lowrie inquired interestedly.
"Well," she hesitated, "Randolph's got
Chance Gallant still standing at Foxes'
Hole—"
Mr. Lowrie hooted. "Chance Gallant!
My Lord, baby, you haven't a hope!"
"Oh, I knew you'd laugh," she said wist-
fully. "Leighton did too — but I've got my
heart set on him — nothing's too good for
my Satin."
"Chance Gallant is, honey," he said
gently. "In the first place, the fee is 'way
over your head; in the second place, his
Mrs. Cugat 77
book is full until year after next; and in
the third place, *No maidens need apply.' "
Miss Calhoun Ifxjked disconsolate. Then he
added, "Besides, he isn't still standin' at
Foxes' Hole — they shipped to Kentucky
yesterday."
"Oh, they did!" her voice sounded small
and squeezed now, but she lifted her proud
little head gamely. "Well, I guess that's
that. I kept hoping like a fool that as long
as he was still in the neighborhood I might
work it somehow."
"Plenty of good stallions around within
reason," comforted Mr. Lowrie. "Take
my Null and Void, for instance — "
Mr. and Mrs. Cugat nodded and smiled
and clucked in polite sympathy throughout
this, but Cory, usually the most responsive
of guests, ate on stolidly.
"Now we'll all go out and look at the
horses," he said suddenly as they finally
pushed back their chairs.
"That's right, darling," said Miss Cal-
houn in a surprised voice. "I was just going
to suggest it!" and she gave him the first
nice look that the Cugats had seen sent
in his direction all day. Its effect was
pathetic — he bounded to meet it like an
ecstatic spaniel. If Miss Calhoun had said,
"Down, Cory-boy, down, I say!" Mrs.
Cugat would not have been in the least sur-
prised.
The stables were extensive. Mrs. Cu^at
was impressed. They idled along past box
after box, stopping a little before each one
to discuss and pat its occupant. A bow-
legged, monosyllabic man in high-waisted
breeches accompanied them, as well as the
murderer, Leighton. Miss Calhoun and
Mr. Lowrie made assertions and disagreed
and disputed amiably at ever\' stall;
Leighton diplomatically siding first with
one and then with the other. The hi^h-
waisted man spat philosophically and
78 Isabel Scott
opened and closed doors and produced
sugar. The horses leaned out sociably. Mrs.
Cugat wondered how, with so many horses,
they ever remembered which was which,
and halfway through stopped paying much
attention and simply gave herself up to en-
joying her surroundings. The stable was
very pleasant — it had a nice smell — not
ammoniac like the livery stable at home,
but clean and pungent and leathery. The
stalls had beautifully stained doors with
wrought-iron hinges and brass nameplates
(that's how they told!), and in the tack
room hung row upon row of shining
saddles and ribbony bridles.
Mr. Cugat asked intelligent questions
and appeared vastly interested — she was
proud of him — but Cory lounged along
looking half asleep and ventured little.
Once he did timidly tweak a curl behind
his beloved's ear, when he apparently
thought Mr. Lowrie wasn't looking, but
Miss Calhoun was at the time asserting
witheringly that, as everybody knew, some
old crock of Mr. Lowrie's had been gone
in the wind for a year and he was a perfect
ass to hold out for two hundred. She,
though, might give him one-seventy-five,
she let fall craftily — and brushed at the
curl with impatience.
In the last and largest box with the big-
gest and shiniest nameplate lived My Lady
Satin. "Lovely-Lovely," crooned Miss Cal-
houn, stepping into the stall and rubbing
her clear brown cheek against the shining
neck. My Lady Satin pawed the floor and
bunted Miss Calhoun around affection-
ately. Cory looked out the window. "Come,
darling, and show the lady and gentleman
what a Beautiful you are! Come on, girl —
come, Gorgeous.'* My Lady Satin tossed
her head and rolled her eyes, but was
finally prevailed upon to put her head in a
Roric\
halter and emerge. She looked just like any
odier horse to Mrs. Cugat, only bigger and
nearer. Mrs. Cugat grasped Mr. Cugat's
arm and held on tight, and My Lady Satin
swished her tail and whinnied.
"Did you ever," asked Miss Calhoun of
Mr. Cugat, with a misty, love-clouded look,
"see anything more perfect than this.?"
"She's a beauty, all right!" said Mr.
Cugat enthusiastically, and ran a profes-
sional-looking eye over My Lady Satin and
stroked her neck fearlessly. Mrs. Cugat
watched him in admiration; then, for
some reason, she looked at Mr. Lowrie —
he was watching Miss Calhoun, and with
a surprising expression on his sharp face.
He looked tender. Cory continued to gaze
dully out the window.
However, this rapt though disparate at-
mosphere was suddenly shattered; from
outside came rapidly approaching sounds
of tumult. My Lady Satin was turned over
to the high-waisted man summarily and
they all rushed to the door. The stable yard
was full of hounds and, bounding up the
path from the gate, came an apoplectic
young man in a coverall, whipping and
slashing the rear rank mercilessly and blis-
tering the air with oaths. A few of the
hounds were coupled together, but on most
the couples dangled broken. Some still
held on to what may, at one time, have
been a white chicken, and all were splashed
with blood. One proudly lugged along a
large gray gander — ^very dead.
"Why, Patton, what is it.? Clay, loo\l
They're the bitches in whelp!" exclaimed
Miss Calhoun. Then she turned to Cory:
"How did this happen.? What have you
done.? Didn't you put them in when you
brought them back this morning.?"
"Lord," said Cory, "that's right. They
beat it off over a stone wall when Liz and
Mr. and
George drove along, but I was so tickled
I just let 'em go. I figured they'd get home
all right, knowing the country so well. Of
course 1 meant to tell you, but, with one
thing and another, I forgot."
"They done a good two hundred dollars'
worth of damage to mc," snarled the man
named Patton. "Rioted all over my young
box, killed a dozen or more hens, two
shoats, and that gander."
Mr. Lowrie and Leighton took imme-
diate and admirable charge.
"Wait here, Patton," said Miss Calhoun
curtly, "while I go down to the kennels
with them and see how many are missing."
Mr. and Mrs. Cugat and Cory waited
with Mr. Patton and heard again, and with
embellishment, this frightful tale of pil-
lage. Mr. Cugat looked grave, and Cory
stricken. Mrs. Cugat patted Cory's hand
comfortingly, but could think of nothing
much to say.
"Mr. Lowrie will see you the first thing
in the morning, Patton," Miss Calhoun
said, coming back up the path with Leigh-
ton. "Figure it all up and we'll make it
right. We're both very sorry. Such things
don't happen often with this pack, you
know."
Mr. Patton departed, looking vindictive.
"God, Leighton, it would be Patton,
wouldn't it!" exclaimed Miss Calhoun,
slapping agitatedly at her boot with her
crop. "Now he'll probably take down our
post and rail, and put up an electric fence
or something. He's one of those progres-
sive farmer boys," she explained to Mr.
Cugat, "who went to agricultural school
in Nebraska or somewhere — ^we've been
handling him with kid gloves. Now this!"
She turned on her heel and stalked into
the house. Not once had she directed her
ire at^ or even looked upon, Cory. Mrs.
Mrs. Cugat 79
Cugat watched her retreating figure in
some admiration.
She appeared again almost immediately,
however, well in hand, and proceeded to
arrange the afternoon for the pleasure of
her guests. She and Cory and Mr. Cugat
could exercise some horses, she said; Mr.
Lowrie, in the car, could go and look
at fences with Mrs. Cugat, who — wasn't
she correct — hadn't sat on a horse for some
time? She was correct. Mrs. Cugat hadn't
sat on anything even resembling a horse
since she'd been led around the park on a
Shetland pony, screaming, at the age of six,
Mrs. Cugat didn't think looking at fences
(of all things) with the sardonic Mr.
Lowrie sounded much fun, but she was
politely anxious to fall in with any plans.
They were, however, some time getting
started because of Mr. Cugat's calves. Not
booted since he was a polo-playing strip-
ling, they had apparently muscled up and
his boots wouldn't go on. A pair of Mr.
Lowrie's were tried and a pair of Leigh-
ton's, and then a pair produced by Miss
Calhoun which belonged to her father.
These, at last, he managed to squeeze into.
"They're rather nice ones," Miss Calhoun
commented. "Pa won them in a crap
game off the Duke of Windsor."
There was more to looking at fences
with Mr. Lowrie than Mrs. Cugat had ex-
pected. True, they bumped up one lane and
down another and Mr. Lowrie scanned
fences on bodi sides with a sharp eye wliile
she drove; sometimes even getting out to
shake a post or rattle a bar or stamp on
the ground in front of a fence; but they
also paid a lot of calls. As soon as they'd
come to a farmhouse, however small, he'd
tell her to turn in. The dour Mr. Lowrie,
paying calls on farmers, waxed almost
genial. Mrs. Cugat was surprised — he
8o
Isabel Scott Roncl{
seemed very popular. He'd ask about new
babies, chronic ailments, and the state of
crops; graciously sample drinks, pipe to-
bacco, and baked goods, and always, and
without fail, look at a horse.
This last was hard on Mrs. Cugat, who
had to get quite close to a number of
horses with no Mr. Cugat there to cling to.
But she covered her terror as best she could.
"Are you trying to buy a horse?" she
asked curiously, after a particularly long
and footling discussion as to the merits of
a shaggy flea-bitten gray, which had been
proudly led out and trotted around a barn-
yard.
"No, they're tryin' to sell me a horse/'
Mr. Lowrie replied — almost happily.
"Why are they trying to sell you a
horse?" she queried.
"There's not a person in Virginia won't
try to sell you a horse," he said. "It's in
em.
"Why do we keep looking at their
horses, then?" asked Mrs. Cugat, deter-
mined to get to the bottom of this.
"My dear young lady, I'm a master of
hounds," he replied with dignity. "And,"
he went on, "I flatter myself — rather a good
one. That is, in so far as lookin' after the
country and keepin' in with the farmers
goes. We ride over some of their land, you
see. It takes a lot of time, but it's my job
and I like it — and them."
Mrs. Cugat subsided, somewhat
squelched. "Besides," he added, "I just
might run into a bargain."
"There's Foxes' Hole," he said a few
minutes later, pointing with his ever-in-
hand hunting-whip to an imposing white
house with innumerable green-roofed out-
buildings and sweeping gravelled drives.
"That's the Randolph place. Randolph's
the owner of Chance Gallant, you know."
Then, as Mrs. Cugat looked unimpressed,
"The stallion Cal was talkin' about at
lunch. He is a horse, I will say, and be-
tween you and me is bringin' a higher stud
fee now than Man O' War in his best days.
Cal's had her heart set on a Chance Gallant
foal out of Satin ever since the mare went
lame, but of course she'd be a fool to risk
the price even if they'd consent to take
her. Satin's a beauty, but hardly in that
class. Cal, though, is crazier about that
mare than anything — or anybody — in the
world*. It's too bad the stallion's gone — I'd
take you in to see him."
They drove on, Mrs. Cugat giving silent
thanks that there was one less horse in Vir-
ginia to look at, especially one less stallion
— the word sounded fire-breathing.
"One more stop, straight down this road
and then home," said Mr. Lowrie. "This
won't take long, it's just old Lecorn — I
want to speak to him about haulin' some
rails for me."
Old Lecorn was almost the unpleasant-
est-looking man she had ever seen. One
side of his face was sort of hooked up,
which stretched the eye shut; besides which
he seemed slightly half-witted. Terms were
discussed over the front gate anent the
hauling of a load of rails by Lecorn's
team of mules, and then, as usual, they
repaired to the barn.
"That's a cute horse," said Mrs. Cugat,
still politely determined to keep up her
end.
"That's a jackass, mam," said Lecorn
with a crooked, squinting smile.
"Oh, it isT exclaimed Mrs. Cugat.
"Well! What do you do with jackasses,
now.''
"Jackass on a mare gets a mule," Mr.
Lowrie put in briefly.
"Oh, I see! Oh." Would she, Mrs. Cugat
Mr, and
wondered, after a little more time in Vir-
ginia — ?
They arrived home to find Mr. Cugat
prostrate and pale in a porch chair, several
people w^orking over him anxiously. The
Duke of Windsor's boots would not come
off.
"A liT tight, eh?" said Mr. Lowrie,
sauntering up the steps.
"What do you think!" barked Cory, ten-
derly holding a brimming straightshot to
Mr. Cugat's lips.
"Ah knowed a man once't who hadda
have both laigs sawed off," old Enos remi-
nisced. "His boots stuck tight an' the blud
all stopped an' his laigs jus' died.'*
"I'm really afraid they'll have to be cut,
Clay," Miss Calhoun said sadly, and Mrs.
Cugat paled. "The boots, I mean," she
added patiently. "We've worked and
worked, but his legs have swollen now, and
you know how that feels. He's about all
in."
Mr. Lowrie gave her a long sympathetic
look and then set to work with his knife.
The Duke of Windsor's boots, evidently
considered rather in the light of a museum
piece, were not cut without a pang. Mr.
Cugat, finally released, was helped wob-
bling up the stairs. It was time to dress for
the announcement party.
The party was lovely. "Birdie" (a Miss
Byrd, lacking none of the Admiral's tal-
ents for accomplishment) must have felt
amply repaid by the results of her "fuss-
ing." The drawing-room was candlelit, the
stairway hung with green; beaming
negroes ladled champagne cup from bur-
nished bowls, and the guests looked beau-
tiful and distinguished. Women wore their
grandmothers' jewelry — men, pink evening
coats. Mr. Cugat and Cory, honest in tux-
edos, looked a little like somebody got in
to keep an eye on the flat silver.
Mrs. Cugat 8 1
Intuition, however, had told Mrs. Cugat
to bring her off-the-shouldcr black lace,
and she looked lovely. So, in white tulle,
did Miss Calhoun. Miss Calhoun looked
radiant. There were only a chosen few,
however, who knew that this radiance was
not altogether induced by joy in her own
betrothal — Mr. Randolph of Foxes' Hole
was among those present! And it was not
to be bruited about, but he was not send-
ing Chance Gallant to Kentucky until next
week! Furthermore, by way of an engage-
ment present to the daughter of his oldest
friend, he had expansively promised that
Chance Gallant would be at home to My
Lady Satin at any time and on a purely
social footing. (For an engagement pres-
ent! thought Mr. and Mrs. Cugat, strangers
in a strange land.) Mr. Lowrie congratu-
lated Miss Calhoun on her extraordinary
good luck. Cory remained apathetic.
The party waxed gayer and gayer and
the drawing-room floor was cleared for
dancing. Mrs. Cugat found herself in great
demand, and Mr. Cugat, gradually regain-
ing the use of his legs, trod a careful mea-
sure. Virginians were nice, they confided
to each other, if caught singly. Two Vir-
ginians, of course, talked horse.
At the height of the gaiety, however, the
little high-waisted man from the stables
appeared in the door, beckoning urgendy.
"Mis Claiborne, Miss Claiborne," he whis-
pered, "you'd better come. Merry Margaret
looks like foalin'."
"Right away, Reagan," she said quickly
and, without hesitation, left the arms of a
pink-coated gallant who waltzed liked a
dream and slipped briskly into the dirty
white coat held for her.
"Don't you want me to come with you V
oftered Mr. Lowrie.
"No," she replied lightly. "Cory will. It
will be tremendously interesting for him —
82
Isabel Scott
believe it or not, he's never seen a foal
born! Carry on here, Clay, as host. You
know Merry Margaret — it may be hours."
Cory gave Mr. Lowrie a triumphant look
and with a springy step followed his be-
trotlied out into the night.
It was early in the following rosy dawn
that Mrs. Cugat woke suddenly to hear
him come in. She sat up in bed and
hstened. He was being sick in the bath-
room.
"Darling, what do you really think
about this engagement?" Mrs. Cugat whis-
pered worriedly, as she and Mr. Cugat
dressed next morning.
"He's done it this time," Mr. Cugat said,
leaning over with a groan to tie his shoe.
"George, he doesn't fit in down here and
he never will," persisted Mrs. Cugat. "I
want to cry every time I look at him —
cute, funny Cory, who's never at a loss and
the life of every party — Why, he's miser-
able! He can have pretty near any girl in
the world he wants and goes and picks
one like Claiborne. I can't imagine what
she'll do at home — ^none of us ever breed
anything!"
"I know," said Mr. Cugat slowly. ^'That's
the trouble with a shipboard romance —
everybody's out of his true environment
and bathed in tropical moonlight — The
trouble is now that Claiborne and Cory are
both too gentlemanly to break it up."
"Well, I'm not," said Mrs. Cugat, fluffing
out her hair spiritedly. "I never did like
fine gentlemanly women, anyway!"
"Now, Liz," warned Mr. Cugat anx-
iously, "remember it's none of your busi-
ness."
"None of my business! If that's not just
like a man— you feel much worse about it
than I do, but you'd just sit by and watch
him ruin his life and not raise a finger!"
Roricf{^
"There's nothing in the world I wouldn't
do for Cory," declaimed Mr. Cugat heat-
edly, "but some things are taboo. Women
don't understand."
*T11 say they don't!" retorted Mrs. Cugat
in scorn, and they descended to the dining-
room.
A number of people were there — every-
one dressed in hunting-clothes. Claiborne
looked like a slim young English prince.
Mr. Lowrie, Mrs. Cugat thought, was the
only man she had ever seen on whom a
pink coat did not look like fancy dress.
It looked as if it grew on him. Poor Cory,
though, evidently at the mercy of some
cruel custom which Mrs. Cugat decided
was probably designed to put probationary
hunters at the biggest disadvantage pos-
sible, was unbecomingly garbed in a sena-
torial-looking black coat, a wispy white
stock, and a somewhat low derby, locked
on with a cord. He looked like a lugu-
brious monkey on a stick.
"Tie his stock for him, will you, Clay.^^"
Miss Calhoun begged in passing. "He's got
it right over left again."
Mrs. Cugat simmered.
Mr. and Mrs. Cugat watched the hunt
from a car. What they could see of it. And
what they could see of it, Mrs. Cugat didn't
think much of— little mechanical-looking
figures moving across a hillside or standing
interminably about against a dark mass of
trees. Only once did Mr. Cugat exclaim,
"By George, there he goes! Close along
that fence!" and train his glasses on a
near-by hill.
Mrs. Cugat bounced with excitement.
"He's winning, he's winning!" she cried
as the field thundered by and sailed a stone
wall, Cory back in his saddle and well in
the lead of everybody, including hounds.
They drove back to Green Trees after a
Mr. and
time and ate luncheon alone with "Birdie.'*
There was no tell in' when the hunters
would come in, she said. She herself was
goin' to take a nap. Mr. Cugat thought this
an excellent idea and repaired to his room.
Mrs. Cugat wandered into the drawing-
room and sank into a high-backed chair
with a copy of Blood Horse, which she
thought might prove instructive. It didn't,
for she dozed off, and only woke with a
start to find it dusk and herself an em-
barrassed eavesdropper.
"Cal, honey, are you still goin' through
with this ridiculous engagement business?"
asked Mr. Lowrie's drawling voice behind
her with an almost appealing note of
pleading.
"Certainly," came Miss Calhoun's clip-
ped accents; "and why not, may I ask.f^"
She was apparently slapping at her boot
with her whip again.
"Why not, Cal! You ask that! You must
have had your eyes shut all day."
"Yes.?"
"Yes, you know what I'm talkin' about.
Your hero not only kept well out in front
of the huntsman all the time, but he
trampled Bugler, Dido, and Merrylegs in
a lane, galloped over Patton's crocus bed
and cut in on Mrs. Fairchild at a five-
barred gate that she was goin' at like a
train. He refused the gate, of course."
"He couldn't hold his horse," said Miss
Calhoun shortly.
"Exactly," said Mr. Lowrie, "and what
was his horse } None other than old Snow-
ball, who carried your eight-year-old cousin
all last season without a mistake. I did
what I could for him."
"Oh, you know Snowball, Clay. She's
got a mouth of iron if you take hold of it."
"Well, that lad takes a nice hold, all
right. To think of a Calhoun marryin' a
man with bad handd"
Mrs. Cugat 83
Miss Calhoun said nothing.
"Furtfiermorc," said Mr. Lowrie disgust-
edly, "he'd get lonesome or somethin' and
ride up to pass the time o' day every time
hounds were findin' — but to top all, after
the kill he went behind a tree and was
sick."
"Not again!" she sighed.
"Oh, Cal, look at this thing sensibly.
They're nice enough fellows, both of them
— a couple of weanlin' financiers. But what
do you want with a man like that? You
won't even need his fortune after he's made
it. And what are you goin' to do for
huntin'? Cugat says in their country they
hunt wolves — from Lincoln Zephyrs — with
automatic shotguns!"
Mrs. Cugat's eyes widened — Mr. Cugat's
ways were devious!
"Oh shut up!" Miss Calhoun's voice
sounded strained.
"That's right, take it out on me. You've
got the worst temper of any woman I ever
saw and you haven't let fly at him once,
although he's done enough to drive you off
your head."
"I know, Clay," she said huskily, "but
you don't understand. You just can't get
mad at him. He's one of those people that
nobody's ever been mad at, I believe. He's
really a darling — but not himself down
here, somehow. On the boat he was won-
derful."
"Maybe I'm wonderful on a boat, too;
you've never seen me." Mr. Lowrie's voice
was getting husky too. Mrs. Cugat hunched
in her chair uncomfortably.
"I've seen you on a horse, dear," Miss
Calhoun said gently. "You don't have to
show me how w^onderful you are."
"I'd like to try showin' you on a boat,"
Mr. Lowrie said wistfully, and Mrs.
Cugat's heart went suddenly out to him.
Poor Mr. Lowrie^ only known to be won-
84
Isabel Scott Roric\
derful on a horse — he'd never get any-
where. Whereas Cory — But there were
Claiborne and Cory — both gentlemen and
helpless. Claiborne herself had admitted —
almost tearfully — that nobody could get
mad at Cory. If only someone could just
make her get mad at him! Mrs. Cugat,
who was no gentleman, huddled thought-
fully down in her chair.
"Shall we go look at the horses .f^" said
Miss Calhoun brightly as they arose that
evening from an early supper.
"I saw the horses yesterday," said Mr.
Cugat innocently, and sauntered out into
the hall to look for the New York papers.
"So did I," muttered Cory, hobbling
[)ainfully after him, "but haven't you found
out yet that in Virginia we look at the
damned horses after every damned meal!"
Miss Calhoun blinked — surprised and
hurt. "Darling, I didn't know you felt that
way about it," she remonstrated. "Of
course we do! My poor Lady Satin! She'd
be heart-broken if I didn't come to see her."
"Lady Satin, faugh!" exploded Cory in
magnificent contempt. "I wish that big
Spark Plug'd never been born!"
"Why, Cory," said Mrs. Cugat, in an
anxious endeavor to dispel tension. "I be-
lieve you're jealous."
"That's me, all right," he snorted. "Jeal-
ous of a three-legged horse!" and limped
sputtering out of sight.
"I'll go with you, Claiborne," Mrs. Cugat
said valiantly. "I love looking at those
beautiful horses."
Fortunately for her, Leighton was wait-
ing in the yard. "Miss Claiborne," he said,
"I made a mistake about that Upperville
sale; it's Monday instead of Tuesday. We'll
have to go over tomorrow."
"That's bad — I'll have to leave a house-
ful of guests — "
"Please don't worry about us, Claiborne,"
protested Mrs. Cugat. "We'll get along all
right. If it's something important — "
"It is," Miss Calhoun said thoughtfully.
"There's a chance to pick up something
pretty good in brood mares at that sale.
Lord ! and I wanted to send Satin to Foxes'
Hole tomorrow too, before Randolph
changes his mind. But if you and I and
Ned go with the van, Leighton, that leaves
nobody on the place but the kennel boy
or Reagan to drive her over in the trailer,
and I don't trust either one of them with
it on these hills. I have it, though!" — she
turned to Mrs. Cugat — "Cory's good with
cars. Why can't Reagan load her and then
George and Cory run her down — ^if they
will.f^ I could phone Foxes' Hole tonight
that she's coming, and then all they'll have
to do is wait while she's unloaded and
drive the trailer back."
Mr. Cugat and Cory appeared, strolling
together through the dusk, and the sub-
ject was tactfully broached. Both said sure
and that they'd drive very carefully.
"How far is it — dear.f*" asked Cory,
sounding timid.
"Just up the road," said Leighton, "you
can't miss it. Big trees, white gate, green
mailbox, and they'll be expecting you."
Mr. Cugat and Cory lit their pipes and
strolled away — in the opposite direction,
however, from the stables.
"May I borrow the station wagon .f^"
asked Mrs. Cugat suddenly. "I want to send
a telegram."
"Phone it," said Miss Calhoun.
"I'll go, I believe — there's something I
want to get. The stores are open on Satur-
day night, aren't they.f^" She was halfway
to the garage.
"What in time are you doing.?" Mr.
Mr. and
Cugat muttered, sticking his head out of
the covers at five o'clock the next morning.
"Shhh!" whispered Mrs. Cugat. "I woke
up, so I just thought rd go out and help
poor Cory with those hounds. I don't want
him to get in any worse than he is! You
go back to sleep."
"I certainly will!" sputtered Mr. Cugat.
^'HoundsT
Mrs. Cugat slipped back into the bed-
room several hours later, disheveled and
weary. Mr. Cugat was not there. She could
hear him and Cory and Reagan out in the
yard loading My Lady Satin into the
trailer. Miss Calhoun, Leighton, and Ned
had left at daybreak, as planned, in a van
that looked Hke the club car on a trans-
continental streamliner. Mrs. Cugat had
seen them go from a crouching position
under a lilac bush. She stretched and
yawned now, and then went into the bath-
room to draw a bath. When Mr. Cugat
came in an hour later, she was dozing
across the foot of the bed.
"Oh hello, you back.?" she said, and sat
up eagerly.
"Back again," said Mr. Cugat, whistling
cheerily. "Where you been? Cory said you
weren t —
"Tell me cdl about it!" Mrs. Cugat inter-
rupted.
"Liz!" expostulated Mr. Cugat, scandal-
ized.
"Oh — I mean did you find the place all
right ? And did you and Cory get Trecious'
safely unloaded and so forth?"
"Sure," he said. "We didn't have to do a
thing; there was a fella there waiting for
us who was very handy getting her out."
"What'd he look like?" Mrs. Cugat
asked breathlessly.
"Sort of half-witted. One side of his face
all squinted up."
Mrs. Cugat 85
Mrs. Cugat had hopped off the bed.
"Come on and pack, George. I think you
and I better be getting out of here."
"Getting out — why?"
"I think Cory's engagement is about to
be broken."
"What on earth arc you talking about?"
"Claiborne's going to get mad at him
this time — he's just taken 'Beautiful' to be
bred to a jackass!"
"What?"
"Accidentally, of course — but she'll
never believe it."
"What do you mean?"
" 'Jackass on a mare gets a mule,' " re-
cited Mrs. Cugat glibly, "and you took
'Lovely-Lovely' where a jackass lives."
"We did not!" Mr. Cugat protested.
"We went to the place they told us — right
up the road, big trees, white gate, green
mailbox, looked like a fox's hole, and the
man was expecting us."
"I know," said Mrs. Cugat, piling clothes
into her suitcase. "I was up there this morn-
ing, paid him a thirty-dollar stud fee and
told him Lady Satin was on the way-
then I went out and painted his mail-box
green. Get going, darling — we've got to
hurry."
"Ah," exclaimed Mrs. Cugat, from be
hind the evening paper, ten days later and
safe at home, "here we are ! 'Sailing tonight
aboard the S.S. Mariposa for an extended
cruise of the South Seas will be Mr. Cory
Cartwright of this city. Mr. Cartwright
plans to spend some time on the island of
Bali. Accompanying him is his great-aunt,
Miss Lydia Bonbright of Four Forks,
Iowa.' — Darling, it worked!"
Mr. Cugat raised his eyes. "Have you
thought how we'll look in sarongs?" he
asked gravely.
DA^aD GRAY (1870- )
Mr. Carteret and His
Fellow Americans Abroad
from MR. CARTERET
Although this story is not quite as tvell \notvn as Gallops, surely,
of all the hilarious tales that David Gray has given us, this is both
hilarious and original! No one but an American who had visited much
in England could have written this story, and no one but an American
who has bearded the hunting Englishman in his den can really appreciate
the picture as the author draws it I
It must have been highly interesting,"
observed Mrs. Archie Brav^le; "so
much pleasanter than a concert."
"Rather!" replied Lord Frederic. "It was
ripping!"
Mrs. Ascott-Smith turned to Mr. Car-
teret. She had been listening to Lord Fred-
eric Westcote, v^ho had just come down
from town where he had seen the Wild
West show. "Is it so.?" she asked. "Have
you ever seen them.?" By "them" she
meant the Indians.
Mr. Carteret nodded.
"It seems so odd," continued Mrs. Archie
Brawle, "that they should ride without
saddles, is it a pose.?"
"No, I fancy not," replied Lord Frederic.
"They must get very tired without stir-
rups," insisted Mrs. Archie. "But perhaps
they never ride very long at a time."
"That is possible," said Lord Frederic
doubtfully. "They are only on about
twenty minutes in the show."
Mr. Pringle, the curate, who had hap-
pened in to pay his monthly call upon Mrs.
Ascott-Smith, took advantage of the pause.
"Of course, I am no horse-man," he began
apprehensively, "and I have never seen the
red Indians, either in their native wilds
or in a show, but I have read not a little
about them, and I have gathered that they
almost live on horseback."
Major Hammerslea reached toward the
tea table for another muffin and hemmed.
"It is a very different thing," he said with
heavy impressiveness. "It is a very differ-
ent thing."
The curate looked expectant, as if be-
lieving that his remarks were going to be
86
Mr. Carteret
noticed. But nothing was farther from the
Major's mind.
"What is so very different?" inquired
Mrs. Ascott-Smith, after a pause had made
it clear that the Major had ignored Pringle.
"It is one thing, my dear Madame, to
ride a stunted, half-starved pony, as you
say, ^bareback' and another to ride a con-
ditioned British hunter (he pronounced it
huntaw) w^ithout a saddle. I must say that
the latter is an impossibility." The oracle
came to an end and the material Major
began on a muffin.
There was an approving murmur of as-
sent. The Major was the author of "School-
ing and Riding British Hunters"; however,
it was not only his authority which swayed
the company, but individual conviction. Of
the dozen people in the room, excepting
Pringle, all rode to hounds with more or
less enthusiasm, and no one had ever seen
any one hunting without a saddle, and no
one had ever experienced any desire to try
the experiment.
"Nevertheless," observed Lord Frederic,
"I must say their riding is very creditable
— quite as good as one sees on any polo
field in England."
Major Hammer slea looked at him se-
verely, as if his youth were not wholly an
excuse. "It is, as I said," he observed. "It
is one thing to ride an American pony and
another to ride a British hunter. One re-
quires horsemanship, the other does not.
And horsemanship," he continued, "which
properly is the guiding of a horse across
country, requires years of study and ex-
perience."
Lord Frederic looked somewhat uncon-
vinced, but he said nothing.
"Of course the dear Major (she called
it deah Majaw) is quite right," said Mrs.
Ascott-Smith.
«7
"Undoubtedly," said Mr. Carteret. "I
suppose that he has often seen these Indians
ride ?"
"Have you often seen these Indians
ride?" inquired Mrs. Ascott-Smith of the
Major.
"Do you mean Indians or the Red Men
of North America?" replied the Major.
"And do you mean ride upon ponies in a
show or ride upon British hunters?"
"Which do you mean?" asked Mrs.
Ascott-Smith.
"I suppose that I mean American In-
dians," said Mr. Carteret, "and either upon
ponies or upon British hunters."
"No," said the Major. "I have not. Have
you r
"Not upon British hunters," said Mr.
Carteret.
"But do you think that they could?" in-
quired Lord Frederic.
"It would be foolish of me to express an
opinion," replied Mr. Carteret, "because,
in the first place, I have never seen them
ride British hunters over fences — "
"They would come off at the first ob-
stacle," observed the Major, more in sor-
row than in anger.
"And in the second place," continued
Mr. Carteret, "I am perhaps naturally pre-
judiced in behalf of my fellow country-
men."
Mrs. Ascott-Smith looked at him anx-
iously. His sister had married a British
peer. "But you Americans are quite distinct
from the Red Indians," she said. '*We quite
understand that nowadays. To be sure, my
dear Aunt — " she stopped.
"Rather!" said Mrs. Archie Brawle. "You
don't even intermarry with them, do you?"
"That is a matter of personal taste," said
Mr. Carteret. "There is no law against it."
88 David
"But nobody that one knows — " began
Mrs. Ascott-Smith.
"There was John Rolfe," said Mr. Car-
teret; "he was a very well known chap."
"Do you know hun?" asked Mrs.
Brawle.
The curate sniggered. His hour of
triumph had come. "Rolfe is dead," he
said.
"Really!" said Mrs. Brawle, coldly. "It
had quite slipped my mind. You see I never
read the papers during hunting. But is his
wife received.^"
"I believe that she was," said Mr. Car-
teret.
The curate was still sniggering and Mrs.
Brawle put her glass in her eye and looked
at him. Then she turned to Mr. Carteret.
"But all this," she said, "of course has noth-
ing to do with the question. Do you think
that these red Indians could ride bareback
across our country.^"
"As I said before," replied Mr. Carteret,
"It would be silly of me to express an
opinion, but I should be interested in seeing
them try it."
"I have a topping idea!" cried Lord
Frederic. He was an enthusiastic, simple-
minded fellow.
"You must tell us," exclaimed Mrs.
Ascott-Smith.
"Let us have them down, and take them
hunting!"
"How exciting!" exclaimed Mrs. Ascott-
Smith. "What sport!"
The Major looked at her reprovingly.
"It would be as I said," he observed.
"But it would be rather interesting," said
Mrs. Brawle.
"It might," said the Major, "it might be
interesting."
"It would be ripping!" said Lord Fred-
eric. "But how can we manage it.'^"
Gray
"I'll mount them," said the Major with a
grim smile. "My word ! They shall have the
pick of my stable though I have to spend
a month rebreaking horses that have run
away."
"But it isn't the difficulty of mounting
them," said Lord Frederic. "You see Fve
never met any of these chaps." He turned
to Mr. Carteret with a sudden inspiration.
"Are any of them friends of yours .f^" he
asked.
Mrs. Ascott-Smith looked anxiously at
Mr. Carteret as if she feared that it would
develop that some of the people in the
show were his cousins.
"No," he replied, "I don't think so, al-
though I may have met some of them in
crossing reservations. But I once went
shooting with Grady, one of the managers
of the show."
"Better yet!" said Lord Frederic. "Do
you think that he would come and bring
some of them down.^^" he asked.
"I think he would," said Mr. Carteret.
He knew that the showman was strong in
Grady — as well as the sportsman.
The Major rose to go to the billiard
room. "I have one piece of advice to give
you," he said. "This prank is harmless
enough, but establish a definite understand-
ing with this fellow that you are not to be
liable in damages for personal injuries
which his Indians may receive. Explain to
him that it is not child's play and have him
put it in writing."
"You mean have him execute a kind of
release .f^"
"Precisely that," said the Major. "I was
once sued for twenty pounds by a groom
that fell off my best horse and let him run
away, and damme, the fellow recovered."
He bowed to the ladies and left the room.
"Of course we can fix all that up," said
Mr.
Lord Frederic. "The old chap is a bit over-
cautious nowadays, but how can we get
hold of this fellow Grady?"
"I'll wire him at once, if you wish," said
Mr. Carteret, and he went to the writing
table. "When do you want him to come
down?" he asked as he began to write.
"We might take them out with the
Quorn on Saturday," said Lord Frederic,
"but the meet is rather far for us. Perhaps
it would be better to have them on Thurs-
day with Charley Ploversdale's hounds."
Mr. Carteret hesitated a moment.
"Wouldn't Ploversdale be apt to be fussy
about experiments? He's rather conserva-
tive, you know, about the way people are
turned out. I saw him send a man home
one day who was out without a hat. It was
an American who was afraid that hats
made his hair come out."
"Pish," said Lord Frederic. "Charley
Ploversdale is as mild as a dove."
"Suit yourself," said Mr. Carteret. "I'll
make it Thursday. One more question," he
added. "How many shall I ask him to
bring down?" At this moment the Major
came into the room again. He had mislaid
his eyeglasses.
"I should think that a dozen would be
about the right number," said Lord Fred-
eric, replying to Mr. Carteret. "It would
be very imposing."
"Too many!" said the Major. "We must
mount them on good horses and I don't
want my entire stable ruined by men who
have never lepped a fence."
"I think the Major is right about the
matter of numbers," said Mr. Carteret,
"how would three do?"
"Make it three," said the Major.
Before dinner was over a reply came
from Grady saying that he and three bucks
Carteret %^
would be pleased to arrive Thursday
morning prepared for a hunting party.
This took place on Monday, and at var-
ious times during Tuesday and Wednes-
day Mr. Carteret gave the subject thought.
By Thursday morning his views had rip-
ened. He ordered his tea and eggs to be
served in his room and came down a little
past ten dressed in knickerbockers and an
old shooting coat. He wandered into the
dining-room and found Mrs. Ascott-Smith
sitting by the fire entertaining Lord Fred-
eric, as he went to and from the sideboard
in search of things to eat.
"Good morning," said Mr. Carteret,
hoarsely.
Lord Frederic looked around and as he
noticed Mr. Carteret's clothes his face
showed surprise.
"Hello!" he said. "You had better hurry
and change, or you'll be late. We have to
start in half an hour to meet Grady."
Mr. Carteret coughed. "I don't think
that I can go out today. It is a great dis-
appointment."
"Not going hunting?" exclaimed Mrs.
Ascott-Smith. "What is the matter?"
"I have a bad cold," said Mr. Carteret
miserably.
"But, my dear fellow," exclaimed Lord
Frederic, "it will do your cold a world of
good!"
"Not a cold like mine," said Mr. Car-
teret.
"But this the day, don't you know?" said
Lord Frederic. "How am I going to man-
age things without you?"
"All that you have to do is to meet them
at the station and take them to the meet,"
said Mr. Carteret. "Everything else has
been arranged."
"But Im awfully disappointed," said
Lord Frederic. "I had counted on vou to
90
David Gray
help, don't you see, and introduce them to
Ploversdale. It would be more graceful for
an American to do it than for me. You
understand?"
"Yes," said Mr. Carteret," I understand.
It's a great disappointment, but I must bear
it philosophically."
Mrs. Ascott-Smith looked at him sym-
pathetically, and he coughed twice. "You
must be suffering," she said. "Freddy, you
really must not urge him to expose him-
self. Have you a pain here?" she inquired,
touching herself in the region of the pleura.
"Yes," said Mr. Carteret, "it is just there,
but I daresay it will soon be better."
"I am afraid not," said his hostess. "This
is the way pneumonia begins. You must
take a medicine that I have. They say it is
quite wonderful for inflammatory colds.
I'll send Hodgson for it," and she touched
the bell.
"Please, please don't take that trouble,"
entreated Mr. Carteret.
"But you must take it," said Mrs. Ascott-
Smith. "They call it Broncholine. You pour
it in a tin and inhale it or swallow it, I
forget which, but it's very efficacious. They
used it on Teddy's pony when it was sick.
The little creature died, but that was be-
cause they gave it too much, or not enough,
I forget which.
Hodgson appeared and Mrs. Ascott-
Smith gave directions about the Broncho-
line.
"I thank you very much," said Mr. Car-
teret humbly, "I'll go to my room and try
it at once."
"That's a good chap!" said Lord Fred-
eric, "perhaps you will feel so much better
that you can join us."
"Perhaps," said Mr. Carteret gloomily,
"or it may work as it did on the pony," and
he left the room.
After Hodgson had departed from his
chamber leaving explicit directions as to
how and how not to use the excellent
Broncholine, Mr. Carteret poured a quan-
tity of it from the bottle and threw it out
of the window, resolving to be on the safe
side. Then he looked at his boots and his
pink coat and his white leathers, which
were laid out upon the bed. "I don't think
there can be any danger," he thought, "if
I turn up after they have started. I loathe
stopping in all day." He dressed leisurely,
ordered his second horse to be sent on,
and some time after the rest of the house-
hold had gone to the meet he sallied forth.
As he knew the country and the coverts
which Lord Ploversdale would draw, he
counted on joining the tail of the hunt,
thus keeping out of sight. He inquired of
a rustic if he had seen hounds pass and
receiving a "no" for an answer, he jogged
on at a faster trot, fearing that the hunt
might have gone away in some other di-
rection.
As he came around a bend in the road,
he saw four women riding toward him,
and as they drew near he saw that they
were Lady Violet Weatherbone and her
three daughters. These young ladies were
known as the Three Guardsmen, a sobri-
quet not wholly inappropriate; for, as Lord
Frederic described them, they were "big-
boned, up-standing fillies," between twenty-
five and thirty, and very hard goers across
any country, and always together.
"Good morning," said Mr. Carteret,
bowing. "I suppose the hounds are close
by?" It was a natural assumption, as Lady
Violet, on hunting days, was never very
far from hounds.
"I do not know," she responded, and her
tone further implied that she did not care.
Mr. Carteret hesitated a moment. "Is
Mr.
anything the matter?" he asked. "Has any-
thing happened?"
*'Yes," said Lady Violet frankly, "some-
rhing has happened." Here the daughters
modestly turned their horses away.
"Some one," continued Lady Violet,"
brought savages to the meet." She paused
impressively.
"Not really!" said Mr. Carteret. It v^as
all that he could think of to say.
"Yes," said Lady Violet," and while it
would have mattered little to me, it was
impossible — " she motioned her head
toward the three maidens, and paused.
"Forgive me," said Mr. Carteret, "but do
I quite understand?"
"At the first I thought," said Lady Violet,
"that they were attired in painted fleshings,
but upon using my glass, it was clear that
I was mistaken. Otherwise, I should have
brought them away at the first moment."
"I see," said Mr. Carteret. "It is most
unfortunate!"
"It is indeed!" said Lady Violet; "but
the matter will not be allowed to drop.
They were brought to the meet by that
young profligate. Lord Frederic Westcote."
"You amaze me," said Mr. Carteret. He
bowed, started his horse, and jogged along
for five minutes, then he turned to the
right upon a crossroad and suddenly found
himself with hounds. They were feathering
excitedly about the mouth of a tile drain
into which the fox had evidently gone.
No master, huntsmen or whips were in
sight, but sitting wet and mud-daubed
upon horses dripping with muddy water
were Grady dressed in cowboy costume
and three naked Indians. Mr. Carteret
glanced about over the country and under-
stood. They had swum the brook at the
place where it ran between steep clay banks
and the rest of the field had gone around
Carteret cji
to the bridge. As he looked toward the
south, lie saw Lord Ploversdalc riding fu-
riously toward him followed by Smith, the
huntsman. Grady had not rccognizx-d Mr.
Carteret turned out in pink as he was,
and for the moment the latter decided to
remain incognito.
Before Lord Ploversdalc, Master of Fox-
hounds, reached the road, he began waving
his whip. He ap]x:ared excited. "What do
you mean by riding upon my hounds?" he
shouted. He said this in several ways with
various accompanying phrases, but neither
the Indians nor Grady seemed to notice
him. It occurred to Mr. Carteret that, al-
though Lord Ploversdale's power of expres-
sion was wonderful for England, it never-
theless fell short of Arizona standards.
Then, however, he noticed that Grady was
absorbed in adjusting a kodak camera, with
which he was evidently about to take a
picture of the Indians alone with the
hounds. He drev/ back in order both to
avoid being in the field of the picture and
to avoid too close proximity with Lord
Ploversdale as he came over the fence into
the road.
"What do you mean, sir!'' shouted die
enraged Master of Fox-hounds, as he pulled
up his horse.
"A little more in die middle," replied
Grady, still absorbed in taking the picture.
Lord Ploversdale hesitated. He was
speechless with surprise for die moment.
Grady pressed the button and began put-
ting up the machine.
"What do you mean by riding on my
hounds, you and these persons?" demanded
Lord Ploversdale.
"We didn't," said Grady amicably, '"but
if your bunch of dogs don't know enough
to keep out of the way of a horse, they
ought to learn."
92
David Gray
Lord Plover sd ale looked aghast and
Smith, the huntsman, pinched himself to
make sure that he was not dreaming.
"Many thanks for your advice," said
Lord Ploversdale. *'May I inquire who you
and your friends may be?"
"I'm James Grady," said that gendeman.
"This," he said pointing to the Indian near-
est, "is Chief Hole-in-the-Ground of the
Ogallala Sious. Him in the middle is Mr.
Jim Snake, and the one beyond is Chief
Skytail, a Pawnee."
"Thank you, that is very interesting,"
said Lord Ploversdale, with polite irony.
"Now will you kindly take them home.^^"
"See here," said Grady, strapping the
camera to his saddle," I was invited to this
hunt, regular, and if you hand me out any
more hostile talk — " He paused.
"Who invited you?" inquired Lord Plo-
versdale.
"One of your own bunch," said Grady,
"Lord Frederic Westcote, I'm no butter-in."
"Your language is difficult to under-
stand," said Lord Ploversdale. "Where is
Lord Frederic Westcote?"
Mr. Carteret had watched the field ap-
proaching as fast as whip and spur could
drive them, and in the first flight he no-
ticed Lord Frederic and the Major. For this
reason he still hesitated about thrusting
himself into the discussion. It seemed that
the interference of a third party could only
complicate matters, inasmuch as Lord
Frederic would so soon be upon the spot.
Lord Ploversdale looked across the field
impatiently. "I've no doubt, my good fel-
low, that Lord Frederic Westcote brought
you here, and I'll see him about it, but
kindly take these fellows home. They'll
kill all my hounds."
"Now you're beginning to talk reason-
able," said Grady, "I'll discuss with you."
The words were hardly out of his mouth
before hounds gave tongue riotously and
went off. The fox had slipped out of the
other end of the drain, and old Archer had
found the line.
As if shot out of a gun the three Indians
dashed at the stake-and-bound fence on the
farther side of the road, joyously using
their heavy quirts on the Major's thorough-
breds. Skytail's horse, being hurried too
much, blundered his take-off, hit above the
knees and rolled over on the Chief who
was sitting tight. There was a stifled grunt
and then the Pawnee word, "Go-dam!"
Hole-in-the-Ground looked back and
laughed one of the few laughs of his life.
It was a joke which he could understand.
Then he used the quirt again to make the
most of his advantage.
"That one is finished," said Lord Plovers-
dale gratefully. But as the words were in
his mouth, Skytail rose with his horse,
vaulted up and was away.
The M.F.H. followed over the fence
shouting at Smith to whip off the hounds.
But the hounds were going too fast. They
had got a view of the fox and three whoop-
ing horsemen were behind them driving
them on.
The first flight of the field followed the
M.F.H. out of the road and so did Mr.
Carteret, and presently he found himself
riding between Lord Frederic and the
Major. They were both a bit winded and
had evidently come fast.
"I say," exclaimed Lord Frederic, "where
did you come from?"
"I was cured by the Broncholine," said
Mr. Carteret, "amazing stuff!"
"Is your horse fresh?" asked Lord Fred-
eric.
"Yes," replied Mr. Carteret, "I happened
upon them at the road."
Mr.
"Then go after that man Grady," said
Lord Frederic, "and beg him to take those
beggars home. They have been riding on
hounds for twenty minutes."
"Were they able," asked Mr. Carteret,
"to stay with their horses at the fences?"
"Stay with their horses!" puffed the
Major.
"Go on, Hke a good chap," said Lord
Frederic, "stop that fellow or I shall be
expelled from the hunt; perhaps put in
jail. Was Ploversdale vexed .'^" he added.
"I should judge by his language," said
Mr. Carteret, "that he was vexed."
"Hurry on," said Lord Frederic. "Put
your spurs in."
Mr. Carteret gave his horse its head and
he shot to the front, but Grady was nearly
a field in the lead and it promised to be a
long chase as he was on the Major's black
thoroughbred. The cowboy rode along with
a loose rein and an easy balance seat. At
his fences he swung his hat and cheered.
He seemed to be enjoying himself and
Mr. Carteret was anxious lest he might be-
gin to shoot from pure delight. Such a
demonstration would have been miscon-
strued. Nearly two hundred yards ahead at
the heels of the pack galloped the Indians,
and in the middle distance between them
and Grady rode Lord Ploversdale and
Smith vainly trying to overtake the hounds
and whip them off. Behind and trailing
over a mile or more came the field and the
rest of the hunt servants in little groups,
all awestruck at what had happened. It was
unspeakable that Lord Ploversdale's hounds
which had been hunted by his father and
his grandfather should be so scandalized.
Mr. Carteret finally got within a length
of Grady and hailed him.
"Hello, Carty," said Grady, "glad to see
you. I thought you were sick. What can I
Carteret ^
do? They've stampeded. But it's a great ad.
for the show, isn't it? I've got four re-
p<jrters in a hack on the road."
"Forget about the show," said Mr. Car-
teret. "This isn't any laugliing matter.
Ploversdale's hounds are one of the smartest
packs in England. You don't understand.**
"It will make all the better story in the
papers," said Grady.
"No, it won't," said Mr. Carteret. 'They
won't print it. It's like blasphemy upon the
Church."
"Whoop!" yelled Grady, as they tore
through a bullfinch.
"Call them off," said Mr. Carteret,
straightening his hat.
"But I can't catch 'em," said Grady, and
that was the truth.
Lord Ploversdale, however, had been
gaining on the Indians, and by the way
in which he clubbed his heavy crop, loaded
at the butt, it was apparent that he meant
to put an end to the proceedings if he could.
Just then hounds swept over the crest
of a green hill and as they went down the
other side, they viewed the fox in the field
beyond. He was in distress, and it looked as
if the pack would kill in the open. They
were running wonderfully together, the
traditional blanket would have covered
them, and in the natural glow of pride
which came over the M.F.H., he loosened
his grip upon the crop. But as the hounds
viewed the fox so did the three sons of the
wilderness who were followino- close be-
hind. From the hill-top fifty of the hardest
going men in England saw Hole-in-the-
Ground flogging his horse with the hea\7
quirt which hung from his wrist. The out-
raged British hunter shot forward scattering
hounds to right and left, flew a ditch and
hedge and was close on the fox who had
stopped to make a last stand. Without
^ Dai/id
drawing rein, the astonished onlookers saw
the lean Indian suddenly disappear under
the neck of his horse and almost instantly
swing back into his seat swinging a brown
thing above his head. HoIe-in-the-Ground
had caught the fox!
*'Most unprecedented!" Mr. Carteret
heard the Major exclaim. He pulled up his
horse, as the field did theirs, and waited
apprehensively. He saw Hole-in-the-Ground
circle around, jerk the Major's five hun-
dred guinea hunter to a standstill close
to Lord Ploversdale and address him. He
was speaking in his own language.
As tlie Chief went on, he saw Grady
smile.
*'He says," said Grady translating, "that
the white chief can eat the fox if he wants
him. He's proud himself bein' packed with
store grub."
The English onlookers heard and beheld
with blank faces. It was beyond them.
The M.F.H. bowed stifSy as Hole-in
the-Ground's offer was made known to
him. He regarded them a moment in
thought. A vague light was breaking in
upon him. "Aw, thank you," he said,
"thanks awfully. Smith, take the fox. Good
afternoon!"
Then he wheeled his horse, called the
hounds in with his horn and trotted out
to the road that led to the kennels. Lord
Gray
Ploversdale, though he had never been out
of England, was cast in a large mold.
The three Indians sat on their panting
horses, motionless, stolidly facing the cur-
ious gaze of the crowd; or rather they
looked through the crowd, as the lion with
die high breeding of the desert looks
through and beyond the faces that stare
and gape before the bars of his cage.
"Most amazing! Most amazing!" mut-
tered the Major.
"It is," said Mr. Carteret, "if you have
never been away from this." He made a
sweeping gesture over the restricted Eng-
lish scenery, pampered and brought up by
hand.
"Been away from this?" repeated the
Major. "I don't understand."
Mr. Carteret turned to him. How could
he explain it }
"With us," he began, laying emphasis on
the "us." Then he stopped. "Look into their
eyes," he said hopelessly.
The Major looked at him blankly. How
could he. Major Hammerslea of "The
Blues," tell what those inexplicable dark
eyes saw beyond the fenced tillage! What
did he know of the brown, bare, illimitable
range under the noonday sun, the evening
light on far, silent mountains, the starlit
desert!
RUDYARD KIPLING (1865-1936)
The Maltese Cat
from THE DA Y'S WORK
No anthology such as this would he complete without Kipling's famous
tale. Furthermore, the story is unusual in many ways. The real hero is
the horse, not the rider; and the horses tal\ together in a co7ivincing,
and not sentimental, manner. One of the few stories written about polo,
it tells of the little-publicized Mongolian pony — that runty, scrubby,
homely pony with the courage of a lion and a heart as big as all outdoors.
|/^ ]f "^hey had good reason to be proud,
and better reason to be afraid, all
- twelve of them; for though they
had fought their way, game by game, up
the teams entered for the polo tournament,
they were meeting the Archangels that
afternoon in the final match; and the
Archangels men were playing with half a
dozen ponies apiece. As the game was
divided into six quarters of eight minutes
each, that meant a fresh pony after every
halt. The Skidars' team, even supposing
there were no accidents, could only supply
one pony for every other change; and two
to one is heavy odds. Again as Shiraz, the
grey Syrian, pointed out, they were meet-
ing the pink and pick of the polo-ponies
of Upper India, ponies that had cost from
a thousand rupees each, while they them-
selves were a cheap lot gathered often from
country-carts, by their masters, who be-
longed to a poor but honest native infantry
regiment.
"Money means pace and weight," said
Shiraz, rubbing his black-silk nose dole-
fully along his neat-fitting boot, "and by
the maxims of the game as I know it — "
"Ah, but we aren't playing the maxims,"
said The Maltese Cat. "We're playing the
game; and we've the great advantage of
knowing the game. Just think a stride,
Shiraz! We've pulled up from bottom to
second place in two weeks against all tliose
fellows on die ground here. That's because
we play with our heads as well as our
feet."
"It makes me feel undersized and un-
happy all the same," said Kittiwynk, a
mouse-coloured mare with a red brow-band
and die cleanest pair of legs that ever an
95
96 Rudyard
aged pony owned. "They've twice our
style, these others."
Kittiwynk looked at the gathering and
sighed. The hard, dusty polo-ground was
lined with thousands of soldiers, black and
white, not counting hundreds and hun-
dreds of carriages and drags and dog-carts,
and ladies wdth brilliant-coloured parasols,
and officers in uniform and out of it and
crowds of natives behind them; and order-
lies on camels, w^ho had halted to watch
the game, instead of carrying letters up and
down the station; and native horse-dealers
running about on thineared Biluchi mares,
looking for a chance to sell a few first-class
polo-ponies. Then there were the ponies of
thirty teams that had entered for the Upper
India Free-for-AU Cup — ^nearly every pony
of w^orth and dignity, from Mhow to
Peshawar, from Allahabad to Multan;
prize ponies, Arabs, Syrian, Barb, Coun-
try-bred, Deccanee, Waziri, and Kabul
ponies of every colour and shape and tem-
per that you could imagine. Some of them
were in mat-roofed stables, close to the
polo-ground, but most were under saddle,
while their masters, who had been defeated
in the earlier games, trotted in and out
and told the world exactly how the game
should be played.
It was a glorious sight, and the come
and go of the little, quick hooves, and the
incessant salutations of ponies that had met
before on other polo-grounds or race-
courses were enough to drive a four-footed
thing wild.
But the Skidars' team were careful not
to know their neighbours, though half the
ponies on the ground were anxious to
scrape acquaintance with the little fellows
that had come from the North, and, so far,
had swept the board.
"Let's see," said a soft gold-coloured
Kipling
Arab, who had been playing very badly the
day before, to the Maltese Cat; "didn't we
meet in Abdul Rahman's stable in Bombay,
four seasons ago? I won the Paikpattan
Cup next season, you may remember .f^"
"Not me," said The Maltese Cat, politely.
"I was at Malta then, pulling a vegetable-
cart. I don't race. I play the game."
"Oh!" said the Arab, cocking his tail and
swaggering off.
"Keep yourselves to yourselves," said The
Maltese Cat to his companions. "We don't
want to rub noses with all those goose-
rumped half-breeds of Upper India. When
we've won this Cup they'll give their shoes
to know us"
"We sha'n't win the Cup," said Shiraz.
"How do you feel?
"Stale as last night's feed when a musk-
rat has run over it," said Polaris, a rather
heavy-shouldered grey; and the rest of the
team agreed with him.
"The sooner you forget that the better,"
said The Maltese Cat, cheerfully. "They've
finished tiffin in the big tent. We shall be
wanted now. If your saddles are not comfy,
kick. If your bits aren't easy, rear, and let
the saises know whether your boots are
tight."
Each pony had his sais, his groom, who
lived and ate and slept with the animal,
and had betted a good deal more than he
could afford on the result of the game.
There was no chance of anything going
wrong, but to make sure, each sais was
shampooing the legs of his pony to the last
minute. Behind the saises sat as many of
the Skidars' regiment as had leave to attend
the match — about half the native officers,
and a hundred or two dark, black-bearded
men with the regimental pipers nervously
fingering the big, beribboned bagpipes.
The Skidars were what they call a Pioneer
The Day'f
regiment, and the bagpipes made the na-
tional music of half their men. The native
officers held bundles of polo-sticks, long
cane-h;andled mallets, and as the grand
stand filled after lunch they arranged them-
selves by ones and tv^os at different points
round the ground, so that if a stick were
broken the player would not have far to
ride for a new one. An impatient British
Cavalry Band struck up "If you want to
know the time, ask a p'leeceman!" and the
two umpires in light dust-coats danced out
on two little excited ponies. The four play-
ers of the Archangels' team followed, and
the sight of their beautiful mounts made
Shiraz groan again.
"Wait till we know," said The Maltese
Cat. "Two of 'em are playing in blinkers,
and that means they can't see to get out
of the way of their own side, or they may
shy at the umpires' ponies. They've all got
white web-reins that are sure to stretch or
slip!"
"And," said Kittiwynk, dancing to take
the stiffness out of her, "they carry their
whips in their hands instead of on their
wrists. Hah!"
"True enough. No man can manage his
stick and his reins and his whip that way,"
said The Maltese Cat. "I've fallen over
every square yard of the Malta ground, and
I ought to know."
He quivered his little, flea-bitten withers
just to show how satisfied he felt; but his
heart was not so light. Ever since he had
drifted into India on a troop-ship, taken,
with an old rifle, as part payment for a
racing debt. The Maltese Cat had played
and preached polo to the Skidars' team on
the Skidars' stony polo-ground. Now a
polo-pony is like a poet. If he is born with
a love for the game, he can be made. The
Maltese Cat knew that bamboos grew solely
in order that polo-balls might be turned
from their rfxjts, that grain was given to
ponies to keep them in hard condition, and
that ponies were shod to prevent them slip-
ping on a turn. But, besides all these
things, he knew every trick and device of
the finest game in the world, and for two
seasons had been teaching the others all he
knew or guessed.
"Remember," he said for the hundredth
time, as the riders came up, "you must play
together, and you must play with your
heads. Whatever happens, follow the ball.
Who goes out first?"
Kittiwynk, Shiraz, Polaris, and a short
high little bay fellow with tremendous
hocks and no withers worth speaking of
(he was called Corks) were being girthed
up, and the soldiers in the background
stared with all their eyes.
"I want you men to keep quiet," said
Lutyens, the captain of the team, "and es-
pecially not to blow your pipes."
"Not if we win^ Captain Sahib.-" asked
the piper.
"If we win you can do what you please,"
said Lutyens, with a smile, as he slipped
the loop of his stick over his wrist, and
wheeled to canter to his place. The Arch-
angels' ponies were a little bit above them-
selves on account of the many-coloured
crowds so close to the ground. Their riders
were excellent players, but they were a
team of crack players instead of a crack
team; and that made all the difference in
the world. They honestly meant to play
together, but it is very hard for four men,
each the best of the team he is picked
from, to remember that in polo no bril-
liancy in hitting or riding makes up for
playing alone. Their captain shouted his
orders to them by name, and it is a curious
thing that if you call his name aloud in
98
Rudyard
public after an Englishman you make him
hot and fretty. Lutyens said nothing to his
men because it had all been said before.
He pulled up Shiraz, for he was playing
"back/' to guard the goal. Powell on Pol-
aris was half-back, and Macnamara and
Hughes on Corks and Kittiwynk were for-
wards. Tlie tough, bamboo ball was set in
the middle of the ground, one hundred
and fifty yards from the ends, and Hughes
crossed sticks, heads up, with the Captain
of the Archangels, who saw fit to play
forward; that is a place from which you
cannot easily control your team. The little
click as the cane-shafts met was heard all
over die ground, and then Hughes made
some sort of quick wrist-stroke that just
dribbled the ball a few yards. Kittiwynk
knew that stroke of old, and followed as a
cat follows a mouse. While the Captain of
the Archangels was wrenching his pony
round, Hughes struck with all his strength,
and next instant Kittiwynk was away.
Corks following close behind her, their
little feet pattering like raindrops on glass.
"Pull out to the left," said Kittiwynk be-
tween her teeth; "it's coming your way.
Corks!"
The back and half-back of the Arch-
angels were tearing down on her just as
she was within reach of the ball. Hughes
leaned forward with a loose rein, and cut
it away to the left almost under Kitti-
v/ynk's foot, and it hopped and skipped off
to Corks, who saw that, if he was not quick
it would run beyond the boundaries. That
long bouncing drive gave the Archangels
time to wheel and send three men across
the ground to head off Corks. Kittiwynk
stayed where she was; for she knew the
game. Corks was on the ball half a frac-
tion of a second before the others came up,
and Macnamara. with a backhanded
Kipling
stroke sent it back across the ground to
Hughes, who saw the way clear to the
Archangels' goal, and smacked the ball in
before any one quite knew what had
happened.
"That's luck," said Corks, as they
changed ends. "A goal in three minutes
for three hits, and no riding to speak of."
"'Don't know," said Polaris. "We've
made them angry too soon. Shouldn't won-
der if they tried to rush us off our feet next
time."
"Keep the ball hanging, then," said
Shiraz. "That wears out every pony that is
not used to it."
Next time there was no easy galloping
across the ground. All the Archangels
closed up as one man, but there they
stayed, for Corks, Kittiwynk, and Polaris
were somewhere on the top of the ball
marking time among the rattling sticks,
while Shiraz circled about outside, waiting
for a chance.
"We can do this all day," said Polaris,
ramming his quarters into the side of an-
other pony. "Where do you think you're
shoving to.?"
"I'll— I'll be driven in an ek\a if I
know," was the gasping reply, "and I'd
give a week's feed to get my blinkers off.
I can't see anything."
"The dust is rather bad. Whew! That
was one for my ofl-hock. Where's the ball.
Corks?"
"Under my tail. At least the man's look-
ing for it there! This is beautiful. They
can't use their sticks, and it's driving 'em
wild. Give old Blinkers a push and then
he'll go over."
"Here, don't touch me! I can't see. I'll —
I'll back out, I think," said the pony in
blinkers, who knew that if you can't see
The Day's
all round your head, you cannot pro|)
yourself against the shock.
Corks was watching the ball where it lay
in the dust, close to his near fore-leg, with
Macnamara's shortened stick tai>tapping
it from time to time. Kittiwynk was edg-
ing her way out of the scrimmage, whisk-
ing her stump of a tail with nervous excite-
ment.
"Ho! They've got it," she snorted. "Let
me out!" and she galloped like a rifle-bullet
just behind a tall lanky pony of the Arch-
angels, whose rider was swinging up his
stick for a stroke.
"Not today, thank you," said Hughes, as
the blow slid off his raised stick, and Kitti-
wynk laid her shoulder to the tall pony's
quarters, and shoved him aside just as Lut-
yens on Shiraz sent the ball where it had
come from, and the tall pony went skating
and slipping away to the left. Kittiwynk,
seeing that Polaris had joined Corks in the
chase for the ball up the ground, dropped
into Polaris' place, and then "time" was
called.
The Skidars' ponies wasted no time in
kicking or fuming. They knew that each
minute's rest meant so much gain, and
trotted off to the rails, and their saises be-
gan to scrape and blanket and rub them at
once.
"Whew!" said Corks, stiffening up to
get all the tickle of the big vulcanite
scraper. "If we were playing pony for pony,
we would bend those Archangels double in
half an hour. But they'll bring up fresh
ones and fresh ones and fresh ones after
that — you see."
"Who cares?" said Polaris. "We've
drawn first blood. Is my hock swelling?"
"Looks pu%," said Corks. "You must
have had rather a wipe. Don't let it stiffen.
You'll be wanted again in half an hour."
Worf{ 99
"What's the game like?" said the Mal-
tese Cat.
" 'Ground's like your shoe, except where
they put too much water on it," said Kitti-
wynk. "Then it's slippery. Don't play in the
centre. There's a bog there. I don't know
how their next four are going to behave,
but wc kept the ball hanging, and made
'em lather for nothing. Who goes out?
Two Arabs and a couple of country-breds!
That's bad. What a comfort it is to wash
your mouth out!"
Kitty was talking with a neck of a lather-
covered soda-water bottle between her
teeth, and trying to look over v/ithers at
the same time. This gave her a very
coquettish air.
"What's bad?" said Grey Dawn, giving
to the girth and admiring his well-set
shoulders.
"You Arabs can't gallop fast enough to
keep yourselves warm — that's what Kitty
means," said Polaris, limping to show that
his hock needed attention. "Are you play-
ing back. Grey Dawn?"
"Looks like it," said Grey Dawn, as Lut-
yens swung himself up. Powell mounted
The Rabbit, a plain bay country-bred much
like Corks, but with mulish ears. Mac-
namara took Faiz-Ullah, a handy, short-
backed little red Arab with a long tail, and
Hughes mounted Benami, an old and sullen
brown beast, who stood over in front more
than a polo-pony should.
"Benami looks like business," said
Shiraz. "How's your temper, Ben?" The
old campaigner hobbled oii without an-
swering, and The Maltese Cat looked at
the new Archangel ponies prancing about
on the ground. They were four beautiful
blacks, and they saddled big enough and
strong enough to eat the Skidar's team and
gallop away with the meal inside them.
xoo
Rudyard
"Blinkers again," said The Maltese Cat.
"Good enough!"
"They're chargers — cavalry chargers!"
said Kittiwynk, indignantly. ''They II never
see thirteen-three again."
"They've all been fairly measured, and
they've all got their certificates," said The
Maltese Cat, "or they wouldn't be here. We
must take things as they come along, and
keep your eyes on the ball."
The game began, but this time the
Skidars were penned to their own end of
the ground, and the watching ponies did
not approve of that.
"Faiz-Ullah is shirking — as usual," said
Polaris, with a scornful grunt.
"Faiz-Ullah is eating whip," said Corks.
They could hear the leather-thonged polo-
quirt lacing the little fellow's well-rounded
barrel. Then The Rabbit's shrill neigh
came across the ground.
"I can't do all the work," he cried, des-
perately.
"Play the game — don't talk." The Mal-
tese Cat whickered; and all the ponies
wriggled with excitement, and the soldiers
and die grooms gripped the railings and
shouted. A black pony with blinkers had
singled out old Benami, and was interfer-
ing with him in every possible way. They
could see Benami shaking his head up and
down and flapping his under lip.
"There'll be a fall in a minute," said
Polaris. "Benami is getting stufiFy."
The game flickered up and down be-
tween goal-post and goal-post, and the
black ponies were getting more confident
as they felt they had the legs of the others.
The ball was hit out of a little scrimmage,
and Benami and The Rabbit followed it,
Faiz-Ullah only too glad to be quiet for
an instant.
The blinkered black pony came up like
Kipling
a hawk, with two of his own side behind
him, and Benami's eye glittered as he
raced. The question was which pony
should make way for the other, for each
rider was perfectly willing to risk a fall
in a good cause. The black, who had been
driven nearly crazy by his blinkers, trusted
to his weight and his temper; but Benami
knew how to apply his weight and how to
keep his temper. They met, and there was a
cloud of dust. The black was lying on his
side, all the breath knocked out of his
body. The Rabbit was a hundred yards up
the ground with the ball, and Benami was
sitting down. He had slid nearly ten yards
on his tail, but he had had his revenge and
sat cracking his nostrils till the black pony
rose.
"That's what you get for interfering. Do
you want any morcV said Benami, and he
plunged into the game. Nothing was done
that quarter, because Faiz-Ullah would not
gallop, though Macnamara beat him when-
ever he could spare a second. The fall of
the black pony had impressed his compan-
ions tremendously, and so the Archangels
could not profit by Faiz-Ullah's bad be-
haviour.
But as The Maltese Cat said when
"time" was called, and the four came back
blowing and dripping, Faiz-Ullah ought to
have been kicked all round Umballa. If he
did not behave better next time The Mal-
tese Cat promised to pull out his Arab tail
by the roots and — eat it.
There was no time to talk, for the third
four were ordered out.
The third quarter of a game is generally
the hottest for each side thinks that the
others must be pumped; and most of the
winning play in a game is made about that
time.
Lutyens took over The Maltese Cat with
The Da/s
a pat and a hug, for Lutycns valued him
more than anything else in the world;
Powell had Shikast, a little grey rat with
no pedigree and no manners outside polo;
Macnamara mounted Bamboo, the largest
of the team; and Hughes Who's Who, alias
The Animal. He was supposed to have
Australian blood in his veins, but he looked
like a clothes-horse and you could whack
his legs with an iron crow-bar without
hurting him.
They v^ent out to meet the very flower of
the Archangels' team; and when Who's
Who saw their elegantly booted legs and
their beautiful satin skins, he grinned a
grin through his light, well-worn bridle.
"My word!" said Who's Who. "We must
give 'em a little football. These gentlemen
need a rubbing down."
"No biting," said The Maltese Cat,
warningly; for once or twice in his career
Who's Who had been known to forget
himself in that way.
"Who said anything about biting? I'm
not playing tiddly-winks. I'm playing the
game."
The Archangels came down like a wolf
on the fold, for they were tired of football,
and they wanted polo. They got it more
and more. Just after the game began, Lut-
yens hit a ball that was coming towards
him rapidly, and it rolled in the air, as a
ball sometimes will, with the whirl of a
frightened partridge. Shikast heard but
could not see it for the minute though he
looked everywhere and up into the air as
The Maltese Cat had taught him. When he
saw it ahead and overhead he went for-
ward with Powell, as fast as he could put
foot to ground. It was then that Powell, a
quiet and level-headed man as a rule, be-
came inspired, and played a stroke that
sometimes comes off successfully after long
Wor^ 1 01
practice. He took his stick in both hands,
ijnd, standing up in his stirru[>s, swi[>cd at
the ball in the air, Munipore fashion. There
was one second of paralysed astoni-shmcnt,
and then all four sides of the ground went
up in a yell of applause and delight as the
ball flew true (you could see the amazed
Archangels ducking in their saddles to
dodge the line of flight, and looking at it
with open mouths), and the regimental
pipes of the Skidars squealed from the rail-
ings as long as the pipers had breath.
Shikast heard the stroke; but he heard
the head of the stick fly off at the same
time. Nine hundred and ninety-nine ponies
out of a thousand would have gone tear-
ing on after the ball with a useless player
pulling at their heads; but Powell knew
him, and he knew Powell; and the instant
he felt Powell's right leg shift a trifle on
the saddle-flap, he headed to the boundary,
where a native officer was frantically wav-
ing a new stick. Before the shouts had
ended, Powell was armed again.
Once before in his life The Maltese Cat
had heard that very same stroke played off
his own back, and had profited by the con-
fusion it wrought. This time he acted on
experience, and leaving Bamboo to guard
the goal in case of accidents, came through
the others like a flash, head and tail low —
Lutyens standing up to ease him — swept on
and on before the other side knew what
was the matter, and nearly pitched on his
head between the Archangels' goal-post as
Lutyens kicked the ball in after a straight
scurry of a hundred and fifty yards. If there
was one thing more than another upon
vi^hich The Maltese Cat prided himself, it
was on this quick, streaking kind of run
half across the ground. He did not believe
in taking balls round the field unless you
were clearly overmatched. After this they
10(2 Rtidyard
gave the Archangels five-minutes of foot-
ball; and an expensive fast pony hates foot-
ball because it rumples his temper.
Who's Who showed himself even better
than Polaris in this game. He did not per-
mit any wriggling away, but bored joy-
fully into tlie scrimmage as if he had his
nose in a feed-box and was looking for
something nice. Little Shikast jumped on
the ball tlie minute it got clear, and every
time an Archangel pony followed it, he
found Shikast standing over it, asking what
was the matter.
"If we can live through this quarter,"
said The Maltese Cat, "I shan't care. Don't
take it out of yourselves. Let them do the
lathering."
So the ponies, as their riders explained
afterwards, "shut-up." The Archangels
kept them tied fast in front of their goal,
but it cost the Archangels' ponies all that
was left of their tempers ; and ponies began
to kick, and men began to repeat compli-
ments, and they chopped at the legs of
Who's Who, and he set his teeth and
stayed where he was, and the dust stood
up like a tree over the scrimmage until
that hot quarter ended.
They found the ponies very excited and
confident when they went to their saises;
and The Maltese Cat had to warn them
that the worst of the game was coming.
"Now we are all going in for the second
time," said he, "and they are trotting out
fresh ponies. You think you can gallop,
but you'll find you can't; and then you'll
be sorry."
"But two goals to nothing is a halter-
long lead," said Kittiwynk, prancing.
"How long does it take to get a goal?"
The Maltese Cat answered. "For pity's
sake, don't run away with a notion that
the game is half-won just because we hap-
Kipling
pen to be in luck now! They'll ride you
into the grand stand, if they can ; you must
not give 'em a chance. Follow the ball."
"Football, as usual?" said Polaris. "My
hock's half as big as a nose-bag."
"Don't let them have a look at the ball,
if you can help it. Now leave me alone. I
must get all the rest I can before the last
quarter."
He hung down his head and let all his
muscles go slack, Shikast, Bamboo, and
Who's Who copying his example.
"Better not watch the game," he said.
"We aren't playing, and we shall only take
it out of ourselves if we grow anxious.
Look at the ground and pretend it's fly-
time."
They did their best, but it was hard ad-
vice to follow. The hooves were drumming
and the sticks were rattling all up and
down the ground, and yells of applause
from the English troops told that the Arch-
angels were pressing the Skidars hard. The
native soldiers behind the ponies groaned
and grunted, and said things in undertones,
and presently they heard a long-drawn
shout and a clatter of hurrahs.
"One to the Archangels," said Shikast,
without raising his head. "Time's nearly
up. Oh, my sire — and dam!"
"Faiz-Ullah," said The Maltese Cast, "if
you don't play to the last nail in your shoes
this time, I'll kick you on the ground be-
fore all the other ponies."
*'ril do my best when the time comes/'
said the little Arab sturdily.
The saises looked at each other gravely
as they rubbed their ponies' legs. This was
the time when long purses began to tell,
and everybody knew it. Kittiwynk and the
others came back, the sweat dripping over
their hooves and their tails telling sad
stories.
The Day's Wor\
103
"They're better than we are," said Shiraz.
"I knew how it would be.'*
"Shut your big head," said The Maltese
Cat; "we've one goal to the good yet."
"Yes; but it's two Arabs and two coun-
try-breds to play now," said Corks. "Faiz-
Ullah, remember!" He spoke in a biting
voice.
As Lutyens mounted Grey Dawn he
looked at his men, and they did not look
pretty. They were covered with dust and
sweat in streaks. Their yellow boots were
almost black, their wrists were red and
lumpy, and their eyes seemed two inches
deep in their heads; but the expression in
the eyes was satisfactory.
"Did you take anything at tiffin?" said
Lutyens; and the team shook their heads.
They were too dry to talk.
"All right. The Archangels did. They
are worse pumped than we are."
"They've got the better ponies," said
Powell. "I sha'n't be sorry when this busi-
ness is over."
That fifth quarter was a painful one in
every way. Faiz-Ullah played like a little
red demon, and The Rabbit seemed to be
everywhere at once, and Benami rode
straight at anything and everything that
came in his way; while the umpires on
their ponies wheeled like gulls outside the
shifting game. But the Archangels had the
better mounts, — they had kept their racers
till late in the game, — and never allowed
the Skidars to play football. They hit the
ball up and down the width of the ground
till Benami and the rest were outpaced.
Then they went forward, and time and
^gain Lutyens and Grey Dawn were just,
and only just, able to send the ball away
with a long, spitting backhander. Grey
Dawn forgot that he was an Arab; and
turned from grey to blue as he galloped.
Indeed, he forgot too well, for he did not
keep his eyes on the ground as an Arab
should, but stuck out his nose and scuttled
for the dear honour of the game. They
had watered the ground once or twice be-
tween the quarters, and a careless water-
man had emptied the last of his skinful all
in one place near the Skidars' goal. It was
close to the end of the play, and for the
tenth time Grey Dawn was Ixjlting after
the ball, when his near hind-foot slipped
on the greasy mud, and he rolled over and
over, pitching Lutyens just clear of the
goal-post; and the triumphant Archangels
made their goal. Then "time" was called —
two goals all; but Lutyens had to be helped
up, and Grey Dawn rose with his near hind-
leg strained somewhere.
"What's the damage?" said Powell, his
arm around Lutyens.
"Collar-bone, of course," said Lutyens,
between his teeth. It was the third time he
had broken it in two years, and it hurt him.
Powell and the others whistled.
"Game's up," said Hughes.
"Hold on. We've five good minutes yet,
and it isn't my right hand. We'll stick it
out."
"I say," said the Captain of the Arch-
angels, trotting up, "are you hurt, Lutyens ?
We'll wait if you care to put in a substitute.
I wish — I mean — the fact is, you fellows de-
serve this game if any team does. 'Wish
we could give you a man, or some of our
ponies — or something."
"You're awfully good, but we'll play it
to a finish, I think."
The captain of the Archangels stared for
a little. "That's not half bad," he said, and
went back to his own side, while Lutyens
borrowed a scarf from one of his native
officers and made a sling of it. Then an
Archangel galloped up witli a big bath-
104 Rudyard
sponge, and advised Lutyens to put it
under his armpit to ease his shoulder and
between them they tied up his left arm
scientifically; and one of the native officers
leaped forward with four long glasses that
fizzed and bubbled.
The team looked at Lutyens piteously,
and he nodded. It was the last quarter, and
nothing would matter after that. They
drank out the dark golden drink, and
wiped their moustaches, and things looked
more hopeful.
The Maltese Cat had put his nose into
the front of Lutyens' shirt and was trying
to say how sorry he was.
"He knows," said Lutyens, proudly. "The
beggar knows. I've played him without a
bridle before now — for fun."
"It's no fun now," said Powell. "But we
haven't a decent substitute."
"No," said Lutyens. "It's the last quarter,
and we've got to make our goal and win.
ril trust The Cat."
"If you fall this time, you'll suffer a
little," said Macnamara.
"I'll trust The Cat," said Lutyens.
"You hear that.?^" said The Maltese Cat,
proudly, to the others. "It's worth while
playing polo for ten years to have that said
of you. Now then, my sons, come along.
We'll kick up a little bit, just to show the
Archangels this team haven't suffered."
And, sure enough, as they went on to
the ground. The Maltese Cat, after satis-
fying himself that Lutyens was home in
the saddle, kicked out three or four times,
and Lutyens laughed. The reins were
caught up anyhow in the tips of his
strapped left hand, and he never pretended
to rely on them. He knew The Cat would
answer to the least pressure of the leg, and
by way of showing off — for his shoulder
hurt him very much — he bent the little fel-
Kipling
low in a close figure-of-eight in and out
between the goal-posts. There was a roar
from the native officers and men, who
dearly loved a piece of dugabashi (horse-
trick work), as they called it, and the pipes
very quietly and scornfully droned out the
first bars of a common bazaar tune called
"Freshly Fresh and Newly New," just as a
warning to the other regiments that the
Skidars were fit. All the natives laughed.
"And now," said The Maltese Cat, as
they took their place, "remember that this
is the last quarter, and follow the ball!"
"Don't need to be told," said Who's
Who.
"Let me go on. All those people on all
four sides will begin to crowd in — ^just as
they did at Malta. You'll hear people call-
ing out, and moving forward and being
pushed back; and that is going to make the
Archangel ponies very unhappy. But if a
ball is struck to the boundary, you go after
it, and let the people get out of your way.
I went over the pole of a four-in-hand
once, and picked a game out of the dust
by it. Back me up when I run, and follow
the ball."
There was a sort of an all-round sound of
sympathy and wonder as the last quarter
opened, and then there began exactly what
The Maltese Cat had foreseen. People
crowded in close to the boundaries, and the
Archangels' ponies kept looking sideways
at the narrowing space. If you know how a
man feels to be cramped at tennis — ^not be-
cause he wants to run out of the court, but
because he likes to know that he can at a
pinch — you will guess how ponies must
feel when they are playing in a box of
human beings.
"I'll bend some of those men if I can get
away," said Who's Who, as he rocketed
behind the ball ; and Bamboo nodded with-
The Day's
out speaking. They were playing the last
ounce in them, and The Maltese Cat had
left the goal undefended to join them. Lut-
yens gave him every order that he could to
bring him back, but this was the first time
in his career that the little wise grey had
ever played polo on his own responsibility,
and he was going to make the most of it.
"What are you doing here?" said
Hughes, as The Cat crossed in front of him
and rode off an Archangel.
"The Cat's in charge — mind the goal!"
shouted Lutyens, and bowing forward hit
the ball full, and followed on, forcing the
Archangels towards their own goal.
"No football," said The Maltese Cat.
"Keep the ball by the boundaries and
cramp 'em. Play open order, and drive 'em
to the boundaries."
Across and across the ground in big
diagonals flew the ball, and whenever it
came to a flying rush and a stroke close
to the boundaries the Archangel ponies
moved stiffly. They did not care to go
headlong at a wall of men and carnages,
though if the ground had been open they
could have turned on a sixpence.
"Wriggle her up the sides," said The Cat.
"Keep her close to the crowd. They hate
the carriages. Shikast, keep her up this
side."
Shikast and Powell lay left and right be-
hind the uneasy scuffle of an open scrim-
mage, and every time the ball was hit
away Shikast galloped on it at such an
angle that Powell was forced to hit it to-
wards the boundary; and when the crowd
had been driven away from that side,
Lutyens would send the ball over to the
other, and Shikast would slide desperately
after it till his friends came down to help.
It was billiards, and no football, this time —
WorI{^ 105
billiards in a corner pcKkct; and the cues
were not well chalked.
"If they get us out in the middle of the
ground they'll walk away from us. Dribble
her along the sides," cried The Maltese
Cat.
So they dribbled all along the boundary,
where a pony could not come on their
right-hand side; and the Archangels were
furious and the umpires had to neglect the
game to shout at the people to get back,
and several blundering mounted policemen
tried to restore order, all close to the scrim-
mage, and the nerves of the Archangels'
ponies stretched and broke like cob-webs.
Five or six times an Archangel hit the
ball up into the middle of the ground, and
each time the watchful Shikast gave Powell
his chance to send it back, and after each
return, when the dust had settled, men
could see that the Skidars had gained a few
yards.
Every now and again there were shouts
of "Side! Off side!" from the spectators;
but the teams were too busy to care, and
the umpires had all they could do to keep
their maddened ponies clear of the scuffle.
At last Lutyens missed a short easy
stroke, and the Skidars had to fly back
helter-skelter to protect tlieir own goal,
Shikast leading. Powell stopped the ball
with a backhander when it was not fifty-
yards from the goal-posts, and Shikast spun
round with a wrench that nearly hoisted
Powell out of his saddle.
"Now's our last chance," said The Cat,
wheeling like a cockchafer on a pin.
"We've got to ride it out. Come along."
Lutyens felt the litde chap take a deep
breath, and, as it were, crouch under his
rider. The ball was hopping towards the
right-hand boundary, an Archangel rid-
ing for it with both spurs and a whip; but
io6 Rudyard
neither spur nor whip would make his
pony stretch himself as he neared the
crowd. The Maltese Cat dided under his
very nose, picking up his hind legs sharp,
for there was not a foot to spare between
his quarters and the other pony's bit. It was
as neat an exhibition as fancy figure-skat-
ing. Lutyens hit with all the strength he
had left, but die stick slipped a little in his
hand, and the fall flew off to the left in-
stead of keeping close to tlie boundary.
Who's Who was far across the ground,
thinking hard as he galloped. He repeated
stride for stride The Cat's manoeuvres
with another Archangel pony, nipping the
ball away from under his bridle, and clear-
ing his opponent by half a fraction of an
inch, for Who's Who was clumsy behind.
Then he drove away towards the right as
The Maltese Cat came up from the left;
and Bamboo held a middle course exactly
between them. The three were making a
sort of Government-broad-arrow-shaped
attack; and there was only the Archangels'
back to guard the goal; but immediately
behind them were three Archangels racing
all they knew, and mixed up with them
was Powell sending Shikast along on what
he felt was their last hope. It takes a very
good man to stand up to the rush of seven
crazy ponies in the last quarters of a Cup
game, when men are riding with their
necks for sale, and the ponies are delirious.
The Archangels' back missed his stroke
and pulled aside just in time to let the rush
go by. Bamboo and Who's Who shortened
stride to give The Cat room, and Lutyens
got the goal with a clean, smooth, smack-
ing stroke that was heard all over the field.
But there was no stopping the ponies. They
poured through the goal-posts in one
mixed mob, winners and losers together,
for the pace had been terrific. The Maltese
Kipling
Cat knew by experience what would hap-
pen, and, to save Lutyens, turned to the
right with one last effort, that strained a
back-sinew beyond hope of repair. As he
did so he heard the right-hand goal-post
crack as a pony cannoned into it — crack,
splinter and fall like a mast. It had been
sawed three parts through in cases of acci-
dents, but it upset the pony nevertheless,
and he blundered into another, who blun-
dered into the left-hand post, and then
there was confusion and dust and wood.
Bamboo was lying on the ground seeing
stars; an Archangel pony rolled beside him,
breathless and angry; Shikast had sat down
dog-fashion to avoid falling over the others,
and was sliding along on his little bobtail
in a cloud of dust; and Powell was sitting
on the ground hammering with his stick
and trying to cheer. All the others were
shouting at the top of what was left of
their voices, and the men who had been
spilt were shoutiag too. As soon as the
people saw no one was hurt, ten thousand
natives and English shouted and clapped
and yelled, and before any one could stop
them the pipers of the Skidars broke on to
the ground, with all the native officers and
men behind them, and marched up and
down, playing a wild Northern tune called
"Zakhme Bagan," and through the insolent
blaring of the pipes and the high-pitched
native yells you could hear the Archangels'
band hammering, "For they are all jolly
good fellows," and then reproachfully to
the losing team, "Ooh, Kafoozalum! Ka-
foozalum! Kafoozalum!"
Besides all these things and many more,
there was a Commander-in-chief, and an
Inspector-General of Cavalry, and the prin-
cipal veterinary officer of all India standing
on the top of a regimental coach, yelling
like school-boys; and brigadiers and col-
The Day's IVor^
onels and commissioners, and hundreds of
pretty ladies joined the chorus. But The
Maltese Cat stood with his head down,
wondering how many legs were left to
him; and Lutyens watched the men and
ponies pick themselves out of the wreck
of the two goal-posts, and he patted The
Maltese Cat very tenderly.
"I say," said the Captain of the Arch-
angels, spitting a pebble out of his mouth,
"will you take three thousand for that pony
— as he stands?"
"No thank you. Fve an idea he's saved
my life," said Lutyens, getting ofi and lying
down at full length. Both teams were on
the ground too, waving their boots in the
air, and coughing and drawing deep
breaths, as the saises ran up to take away
the ponies, and an officious water-carrier
sprinkled the players with dirty water till
they sat up.
"My aunt!" said Powell, rubbing his
back, and looking at the stumps of the
goal-posts. "That was a game!"
They played it over again, every stroke
of it, that night at the big dinner, when
the Free-for-All Cup ^yas filled and passed
down the table, and emptied and filled
again, and everybody made most eloquent
speeches. About two in the morning, when
there might have been some singing, a
wise little, plain little, grey Httle head
looked in through the open door.
"Hurrah! Bring him in," said the Arch-
angels; and his sais, who was very happy
indeed, patted The Maltese Cat on the
flank, and he limped in to the blaze of light
and the glittering uniforms lo^jking for
Lutyens. He was used to messes, and men's
bedrooms, and places where ponies are not
usually encouraged, and in his youth had
jumped on and off a mess-table for a bet.
So he behaved himself very politely, and
ate bread dipped in salt, and was petted all
round the table, moving gingerly; and they
drank his health, because he had done
more to win the Cup than any man or
horse on the ground.
That was glory and honour enough for
the rest of his days, and The Maltese Cat
did not complain much when the veteri-
nary surgeon said that he would be no
good for polo any more. When Lutyens
married, his wife did not allow him to
play, so he was forced to be an umpire;
and his pony on these occasions was a flea-
bitten grey with a neat polo-tail, lame all
round, but desperately quick on his feet,
and, as everybody knew. Past Pluperfect
Prestissimo Player of the Game.
W. B. YEATS (1865-1939)
The Ballad of The Foxhunter
from COLLECTED POEMS
Although perhaps a little on the sentimental side, the following ballad
seemed to me eminently suitable to end the hunting section of this boo^.
"Now lay me in a cushioned chair
And carry me, you four,
With cushions here and cushions there,
To see the world once more.
And some one from the stables bring
My Dermot dear and brown,
And lead him gently in a ring,
And gently up and down.
"Now leave the chair upon the grass:
Bring hound and huntsman here,
And I on this strange road will pass,
Filled full of ancient cheer."
His eyelids droop, his head falls low.
His old eyes cloud with dreams;
The sun upon all things that grow
Pours round in sleepy streams.
Brown Dermot treads upon the lawn.
And to the armchair goes.
And now the old man's dreams are gone,
He smooths the long brown nose.
And now moves many a pleasant tongue
Upon his wasted hands.
For leading aged hounds and young
The huntsman near him stands.
"My huntsman, Rody, blow the horn,
And make the hills reply."
The huntsman loosens on the morn
A gay and wandering cry.
A fire is in the old man's eyes.
His fingers move and sway,
And when the wandering music dies
They hear him feebly say,
"My huntsman, Rody, blow the horn.
And make the hills reply,
I cannot blow upon my horn,
I can but weep and sigh."
The servants round his cushioned place
Are with new sorrow rung;
And hounds are gazing on his face,
Both aged hounds and young.
One blind hound only lies apart
On the sun-smitten grass;
He holds deep commune in his heart:
The moments pass and pass.
The blind hound with a mournful din
Lifts slow his wintry head;
The servants bear the body in;
The hounds wail for the dead.
io8
Ill
Three Famous Rides
Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross,
To see a fine lady ride on a white horse.
JL h
here are many other famous rides,
of course: The Highwayman of Alfred Noyes, The Last Ride To-
gether of Broiuning^ for example, but it did not seem to me that
any except these placed enough emphasis on either the horse or the
rider himself to make them appropriate enough for this book.
ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889)
"How They Brought the Good
News from Ghent to Aix"
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he:
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all
three;
"Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-
bolts undrew,
"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping
through.
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great
pace —
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing
our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths
tight,
Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique
right,
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the
bit.
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
'Twas a moonset at starting; but while we
drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned
clear;
At Boom a great yellow star came out to see;
At Diififeld 'twas morning as plain as could
be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard
the half chime.
So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"
At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every
one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past.
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its
spray:
And his low head and crest, just one sharp
ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on
his track;
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that
glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master,
askance!
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye
and anon
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris,
"Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in
her;
We'll remember at Aix" — for one heard the
quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and stag-
gering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank.
As down on her haunches she shuddered and
sank.
Ill
Robert Browning
So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Lx)oz and past Tongres, no cloud in the
sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless
laugh,
'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stub-
ble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang
white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in
sight!"
Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let
fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and
all.
Stood up in the stirrups, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse
without peer —
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any
noise, bad or good.
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and
stood.
"How they'll greet us!" — and all in a moment
his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a
stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole
weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from
her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the
brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim,
And all I remember is — friends flocking
round.
As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the
ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of
mine.
As I poured down his throat our last measure
of wine.
Which (the burgesses voted by common
consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good
news from Ghent.
112
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW (1807-1882)
Paul Revere's Ride
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the tow^n to-night.
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tow^er as a signal light, —
One if by land, and tw^o if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm.
For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled
oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore.
Just as the moon rose over the bay.
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet.
And the measured tread of the grenadiers.
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North
Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread.
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade, —
By the trembHng ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead.
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread.
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent.
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret
dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead:
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away.
Where the river widens to meet the bay, —
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride.
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side.
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
113
Henry W.
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill.
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A ghmmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark.
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a
spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and
the light.
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his
flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep.
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and
deep.
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge.
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock.
When he crossed the bridge into Medford
town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog.
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
Lotigjellow
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and
bare.
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock.
And the twitter of birds among the trees.
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled, —
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane.
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of
alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm, —
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last.
In the hour of darkness and peril and need.
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
114
WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800)
The Diverting History of John Gilpin
John Gilpin was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
A train-band Captain eke was he
Of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,
"Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.
To-morrow is our wedding day.
And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton,
All in a chaise and pair.
My sister and my sister's child,
Myself and children three,
Will fill the chaise, so you must ride
On horseback after we."
He soon replied, — "I do admire
Of womankind but one.
And you are she, my dearest dear.
Therefore it shall be done.
I am a linen-draper bold,
As all the world doth know,
And my good friend the Calender
Will lend his horse to go."
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, — "That's well said,
And for that wine is dear,
We will be furnish'd with our own,
Which is both bright and clear."
John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife;
O'erjoyed was he to find
That though on pleasure she was bent.
She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not allow'd
To drive up to the door, lest all
Should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stay'd,
Where they did all get in;
Six precious souls, and all agog
To dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels.
Were never folk so glad,
The stones did rattle underneath
As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's side.
Seized fast the flowing mane,
And up he got, in haste to ride.
But soon came down again;
For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he.
His journey to begin,
When, turning round his head, he saw
Three customers come in.
So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it grieved him sore.
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
Would trouble him much more.
"5
ii6 Will ill m Cow per
T was long before the customers Away went Gilpin, neck or nought,
Were suited to their mind, Away went hat and wig!
When Betty screaming, came downstairs, He little dreamt when he set out
"The wine is left behind!" Of running such a rig!
"Good lack!" quoth he, "yet bring it me,
My leathern belt likewise,
In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise."
Now mistress Gilpin, careful soul!
Had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she loved,
And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curUng ear.
Through which the belt he drew,
And hung a bottle on each side,
To make his balance true.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly.
Like streamer long and gay.
Till, loop and button failing both,
At last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern
The bottles he had slung;
A bottle swinging at each side,
As hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children scream'd.
Up flew the windows all.
And evVy soul cried out, "Well done!"
As loud as he could bawl.
Then over all, that he might be
Equipp'd from top to toe.
His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat.
He manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once again
Upon his nimble steed.
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones
With caution and good heed.
But, finding soon a smoother road
Beneath his well-shod feet.
The snorting beast began to trot.
Which gall'd him in his seat,
So "Fair and softly," John he cried,
But John he cried in vain;
That trot became a gallop soon,
In spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he must
Who cannot sit upright.
He grasp'd the mane with both his hands,
And eke with all his might.
His horse, who never in that sort
Had handled been before.
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more*
Away went Gilpin — who but he?
His fame soon spread around —
"He carries weight!" "He rides a race!"
" 'T is for a thousand pound!"
And still, as fast as he drew near,
'T was wonderful to view.
How in a trice the turnpike-men
Their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down
His reeking head full low.
The bottles twain behind his back
Were shattered at a blow.
Down ran the wine Into the road,
Most piteous to be seen.
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke
As they had basted been.
But still he seem'd to carry weight,
With leathern girdle braced.
For all might see the bottle-necks
Still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington
These gambols he did play,
Until he came unto the Wash
Of Edmonton so gay.
The Diverting History of John Gilpin
And there he threw the Wash about The Calender, right glad to find
On both sides of the way, His friend in merry pin.
Just hke unto a trundUng mop, Rcturn'd him not a single word,
Or a wild-goose at play. Jkit to the house went in;
117
At Edmonton his loving wife
From the balcony spied
Her tender husband, wond'ring much
To see how he did ride.
"Stop, stop, John Gilpin! — Here's the house!"
They all at once did cry;
"The dinner waits and we are tired :"
Said Gilpin— "So am II"
But yet his horse was not a whit
Inclined to tarry there;
For why? — his owner had a house
Full ten miles off, at Ware,
So like an arrow swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong;
So did he fly — which brings me to
The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin, out of breath,
And sore against his will.
Till at his friend the Calender's
His horse at last stood still.
The Calender, amazed to see
His neighbour in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
And thus accosted him: —
"What news? what news? your tidings tell.
Tell me you must and shall —
Say why bare-headed you are come.
Or why you come at all?"
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
And loved a timely joke,
And thus unto the Calender
In merry guise he spoke: —
"I came because your horse would come;
And if I well forebode.
My hat and wig will soon be here.
They are upon the road."
Whence straight he came with hat and wig,
A wig that flow'd behind,
A hat not much the worse for wear.
Each comely in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turn
Thus show'd his ready wit: —
"My head is twice as big as yours.
They therefore needs must fit.
But let me scrape the dirt away
That hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case."
Said John "It is my wedding-day,
And all the world would stare,
If wife should dine at Edmonton,
And I should dine at Ware."
So, turning to his horse, he said —
"I am in haste to dine;
'T was for your pleasure you came here.
You shall go back for mine."
Ah, luckless speech and bootless boast!
For which he paid full dear;
For, while he spake, a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he
Had heard a lion roar,
And gallop'd oflF with all his might.
As he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpiii's hat and wig!
He lost them sooner than at first,
For why? — they were too big!
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down
Into the country far away.
She pull'd out half-a-crown;
And thus unto the youth she said
That drove them to the Bell —
"This shall be yours when you bring back
Mv husband safe and well."
William Cow per
With post-boy scramp'ring in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry: —
The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain;
Whom in a trice he tried to stop,
By catching at his rein;
But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went post-boy at his heels! —
The post-boy's horse right glad to miss
The lumb'ring of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road,
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
"Stop thief! stop thief — a highwayman!'*
Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that pass'd that way
Did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking, as before.
That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town;
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up
He did again get down.
Now let us sing, Long live the king,
And Gilpin, long live he;
And when he next doth ride abroad.
May I be there to see!
ii8
IV
Horse Trading
One white leg — buy him,
Two white legs — try him,
Three white legs — deny him,
Four white legs and a white nose,
Take off his hide and throw him to the crows!
— OLD PROVERB.
T
here are probably as many different
conceptions of the perfect horse as there are types of horses. The
horseman of experience knows that in horses, as in men, there is no
such thing as absolute perfection; in every horse one meets there is
invariably some way, no matter how trivial, in tchich it m^ight be
improved. ^^That horse is perfect,^^ one says, ^Hf only he had better
stable manners,^^ or ^^had a faster walk,^^ or ^^stronger hocks,^'
Think over your stable, you horseman, remember all the horses you
have ever ridden, and see if this not not so— yet %ve constantly go on
looking for the ideal. In the following pages are three m^easuring
rods to help us in our search.
ANONYMOUS ARABIAN POET (ca. 400 A. D.)
The Ideal Horse
Sparse is her head and lean her head, and lean her ears pricked close together,
Her fetlock is a net, her forehead a lamp lighted
Illumining the tribe; her neck curves like a palm branch
Her withers sharp and clean. Upon her chest and throtde
An amulet hangs of gold. Her forelegs are twin lances
Her hoofs fly faster even than flies the whirlwind.
Her tail-bone borne aloft, yet the hairs sweep the gravel.
121
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616)
The Ideal Horse
from VENUS AND ADONIS
Round hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head and nostril wide.
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:
Look, what a horse should have, he did not lack.
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.
122
JOHN JORROCKS (ROBERT SMITH SURTEES
1803-1864)
The Ideal Horse
from HANDLE Y CROSS
71
"^here is a wast of fancy about
dealin' — far more than relates to
. the mere colour; indeed, some say
that the colour is immaterial, and there is
an old saw about a good 'oss never being
of a bad colour, but the first question a
green-'orn asks is the colour of the prad.
Old Steropes says, if you have no predilec-
tion that way, choose a mouse-coloured
dun, for it has the peculiar adwantage of
lookin' equally well all the year round. A
black list down the back makes it still
more desirable, as the bystanders will sup-
pose you are ridin' with a crupper, a prac-
tice no finished 'ossmen ought to neglect.
This latter point, however, is confuted by
Gambado, who says, *be werry shy of a
crupper if your 'oss naturally throws his
saddle forward. It will certainlie make his
tail sore, set him a-kickin', and werry
likely bring you into trouble.'
"How perplexin' must all this be to a be-
ginner," exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, throwing
up his hands.
"The height of an 'oss, Gambado says, is
perfectly immaterial, prowided he is higher
behind than before. Nothin' is more
pleasin' to a traveller than the sensation of
continually gettin' forward; whereas the
ridin' of an 'oss of a contrary make is like
swarmin' the bannisters of a staircase,
when, though perhaps you really advance,
you feel as if you were goin' backwards.
"Gambado says nothin' about the size of
an 'oss's 'ead, but he says he should carry
it low, that he may have an eye to the
ground and see the better where he steps.
Some say the 'ead should be as large as pos-
sible, inasmuch as the weight tends to pre-
w^ent the 'oss from rearin', which is a wice
dangerous in the highest degree; my idea
is, that the size of the 'ead is immaterial,
for the 'oss doesn't go on it, at least he
didn't ought to do I know.
"The ears cannot well be too long, Gam-
bado says, for a judicious rider steers his
course by fixin' his eyes between them.
This, however, is a disputed point, and old
Dicky Lawrence recommends that they
should be large and loppin' in a horizonal
direction, by which position no rain can
possibly enter, and the 'oss will have no
occasion to shake 'is 'ead, a habit which he
says not only disturbs the brain but fre-
quently brings on the mad staggers.
"Here again the doctors differ!
123
124 ^^^"^
"It seems agreed on all hands that the
less a 'oss lifts his fore legs, the easier he
will move for his rider, and he will likewise
brush all the stones out of his way, which
mic^ht otherwise throw him down. Gam-
bado thinks if he turns his toes well out,
he wdll disperse them right and left, and
not have the trouble of kickin' the same
stone a second time, but I don't see much
adwantage in this, and think he might as
well be kickin' the same stone as a fresh
one.
*There can be no doubt that a Roman
nose like Arterxerxes's adds greatly to the
gravity of an 'oss's countenance. It has a
fme substantial yeoman-like appearance,
and well becomes the father of a family,
a church dignitary, or a man in easy cir-
cumstances. — A Roman nose and a shovel
hat are quite unique. — Some think a small
eye a recommendation, as they are less ex-
posed to injuries than large ones, but that
is matter of fancy. The nostrils, Lawrence
says, should be small, and the lips thick and
leathery, which latter property aids the
sensibility of the mouth werry consider-
ably. — Some prefer an arched neck to a
ewe, but the latter has a fine consequential
hair, and ought not to be slighted.
"It may be prejudice, but I confess I likes
an 'oss's back wot inclines to a hog bend. —
Your slack backs are all werry well for
carryin' millers' sacks, but rely upon it
there's nothin' like the outward bow for
makin' them date their leaps properly.
Many men in the Surrey remember my
Jorroc^s
famous 'oss Star-gazer. He was made in that
form, and in his leaps threw an arch like
the dome of St. Paul's. A long back is a
grand thing for a family 'oss. — I've seen my
cousin Joe clap six of his brats and his light
porter on the back of the old Crockerdile,
and the old nag would have carried an-
other if his tail had been tied up. — ^In the
'unting field, however, one seldom sees
more than one man on an 'oss, at a time.
Tu/o don't look sportin' and the world's
governed by appearances.
"Some people object to high-blowers,
that is, 'osses wot make a noise like steam-
engines as they go. I don't see no great
objection to them myself, and think the
use they are of clearin' the way in crowded
thoroughfares, and the protection they af-
ford in dark nights by preventin' people
ridn' against you, more than counterbalance
any disconwenience. — Gambado says, a
ball face, wall eyes, and white legs, answer
the same purpose, but if you can get all
four, it will be so much the better.
"There is an author who says the hip-
bones should project well beyond the ribs,
which form will be found werry conwen-
ient in 'ot weather, as the rider may hang
his hat on them occasionally, whilst lie
wipes the perspiration from his brow,
addin' that that form gives the hannimal
greater facility in passin' through stable-
doors, but I am inclined to think that the
adwice is a little of what the French call
pleasantre, and we call gammon; at all
events, I don't follow it."
EDWARD NOYES WESTCOTT (1847-1898)
David Harum's Balky Horse
frotn DAVID HARUM
David Harum is, of course, the original horse trader. It is his character
alone that one remembers or wants to remember in the boo\ that bears
his name, This yarn, about how he bamboozled the deacon, opens the
boo\, and is the best known of any of his deals. Those who have not
read it for years will be glad of a chance to laugh again at David and
his bal\y horse that would "stand without hitchin'!*
Mrs. Bixbee went on with her
needlework, with an occasional
side glance at her brother, who
was immersed in the gospel of his politics.
Twice or thrice she opened her lips as if to
address him, but apparently some restrain-
ing thought interposed. Finally, the im-
pulse to utter her mind culminated. "Dave,"
she said, "d' you know what Deakin
Perkins is sayin' about ye?"
David opened his paper so as to hide his
face, and the corners of his mouth twitched
as he asked in return, "Wa'al, what's the
deakin say in' now.^^'*
"He's sayin'," she replied, in a voice
mixed of indignation and apprehension
"thet you sold him a balky horse, an' he's
goin' to hev the law on ye.'*
David's shoulders shook behind the shel-
tering page, and his mouth expanded in a
grin.
"Wa'al," he replied after a moment,
lowering the paper and looking gravely at
his companion over his glasses, "next to
the deakin's religious experience, them of
lawin' an' horse-tradin' air his strongest
p'ints, an' he works the hull on 'em to once
sometimes."
The evasiveness of this generality was
not lost on Mrs. Bixbee, and she pressed
the point with, "Did ye? an' will he?"
"Yes, an' no, an' mebbe, an' mebbe not,"
was the categorical reply.
"Wa'al," she answered with a snap,
"mebbe you call that an answer. I s'pose if
you don't want to let on you won't, but I
do believe you've ben playin' some trick
on the deakin, an' won't own up. I do
125
126
Edward Noyes Westcott
wish," she added, "that if you hed to git
rid of a balky horse onto somebody you'd
hev picked out somebody else."
"When you got a balker to dispose of,"
said David gravely, "you can't alwus pick
an' choose. Fust come, fust served." Then
he went on more seriously: "Now I'll tell
ye. Quite a while ago — in fact, not long
after I come to enjoy the priv'lidge of the
deakin's acquaintance — we hed a deal. I
wa'n't jest on my guard, knowin' him to
be a deakin an' all that, an' he lied to me so
splendid that I was took in, clean over my
head. He done me so brown I was burnt
in places, an' you c'd smell smoke 'round
me fer some time."
"Was it a horse .^" asked Mrs. Bixbee
gratuitously.
"Wa'al," David replied, "mebbe it had
ben some time, but at that partic'lar time
the only thing to determine that fact was
tliat it wa'n't nothin' else."
"Wa'al, I declare!" exclaimed Mrs. Bix-
bee, wondering not more at the deacon's
turpitude than at the lapse in David's
acuteness, of which she had an immense
opinion, but commenting only on the for-
mer. "I'm 'mazed at the deakin."
"Yes'm," said David with a grin, "I'm
quite a liar myself when it comes right
down to the hoss bus'nis, but the deakin
c'n give me both bowers ev'ry hand. He
done it so slick that I had to laugh when
I come to think it over — an' I had witnesses
to the hull confab, too, that he didn't know
of, an' I c'd 've showed him up in great
shape if I'd a mind to."
"Why didn't ye?" said Aunt Polly, whose
feelings about the deacon were undergoing
a revulsion.
"Wa'al, to tell ye the truth, 1 was so
completely skunked that I hadn't a word
to say. I got rid o' the thing fer what it was
wuth fer hide an' taller, an' stid of squealin'
'round the way you say he's doin', like a
stuck pig, I kep' my tongue between my
teeth an' laid to git even some time."
"You ort to 've hed the law on him,"
declared Mrs. Bixbee, now fully converted.
"The old scamp!"
"Wa'al," was the reply, "I gen'ally prefer
to settle out of court, an' in this partic'lar
case, while I might 'a' ben willin' t' admit
that I hed ben did up, I didn't feel much
like swearin' to it. I reckoned the time 'd
come when mebbe I'd git the laugh on the
deakin, an' it did, an' we're putty well
settled now in full."
"You mean this last puflormance.?"
asked Mrs. Bixbee. "I wish you'd quit
beatin' about the bush, an' tell me the hull
story."
"Wa'al, it's like this, then, if you will
hev it. I was over to Whiteboro a while
ago on a little matter of worldly bus'nis,
an' I seen a couple of fellers halter-exer-
cisin' a hoss in the tavern yard. I stood
'round a spell watchin' 'em, an' when he
come to a standstill I went an' looked him
over, an' I liked his looks fust rate.
"Ter sale.?' I says.
" 'Wa'al,' says the chap that was leadin'
hjm, *I never see the hoss that wa'n't if the
price was right.'
"Tour'n.^'Isays.
"'Mine an' his'n,' he says, noddin' his
head at the other feller.
" 'What ye askin' fer him V I says.
" *One-iifty,' he says.
"I looked him all over agin putty careful,
an' once or twice I kind o' shook my head
's if I didn't quite like what I seen, an'
when I got through I sort o' half turned
av/ay without sayin' anythin', 's if I'd seen
enough.
David Harum
127
" The' ain't a scratch ner a pimple on
him/ says the feller, kind o' resentin' my
looks. 'He's sound an' kind, an' '11 stand
without hitchin', an' a lady c'n drive him
's well 's a man.'
" *I ain't got anythin' agin him,' I says,
'an' prob'ly that's all true, ev'ry word on't;
but one-fifty's a consid'able price fcr a boss
these days. I hain't no pressin' use fer an-
other boss, an', in fact,' I says, 'I've got one
or two fer sale myself.'
"*He's wuth two hunderd jest as he
stands,' the feller says, 'He hain't had no
trainin', an' he c'n draw two men in a
road-wagin better'n fifty.'
"Wa'al, the more I looked at him the bet-
ter I liked him, but I only says, 7^^' so,
jes' so, he may be wuth the money, but jest
as I'm fixed now he ain't wuth it to me,
an' I hain't got that much money with me
if he was,' I says. The other feller hadn't
said nothin' up to that time, an' he broke
in now. *I s'pose you'd take him fer a gift,
wouldn't ycV he says, kind o' sneerin'.
"Wa'al, yes,' I says, 1 dunno but I
would if you'd throw in a pound of tea
an' a halter.'
"He kind o' laughed an' says, 'Wa'al,
this ain't no gift enterprise, an' I guess we
ain't goin' to trade, but I'd like to know,'
he says, 'jest as a matter of curios'ty, what
you'd say he wus wuth to ye?'
" 'Wa'al,' I says, 'I come over this mornin'
to see a feller that owed me a trifle o'
money. Exceptin' of some loose change,
v/hat he paid me 's all I got with me,' I
says, takin' out my wallet. 'That wad's got
a hunderd an' twenty-five into it, an' if
you'd sooner have your boss an' halter than
the wad,' I says, 'why, I'll bid ye good-day.'
"'You're oflerin' one-twenty-five fer the
boss an' halter?' he says.
" 'That's what I'm doin',' I says.
" 'You've made a trade,' he says, puttin'
out his hand fcr the money an' handin' the
liahcr over to me."
"An' didn't ye suspicion nuthin' when
he took ye up like diat?" asked Mrs. Bix-
bcc.
"I did smell woolen some," said David,
"but I had the hoss an' they had the money,
an', as fur 's I c'd see, the critter was all
right. Howsomevcr, I says to 'em: This
here's all right, fur 's it's gone, but you've
talked putty strong 'bout this hoss. I don't
know who you fellers be, but I c'n find out,
I says. Then the fust feller that done the
talkin' 'bout the hoss put in an' says, The'
hain't ben one word said to you about this
hoss that wa'n't gospel truth, not one word.'
An' when I come to think on't afterward,"
said David with a half laugh, "it mebbe
wa'n't gospel truth, but it was good enough
jury truth. I guess this ain't over 'n' above
int'restin' to ye, is it?" he asked after a
pause, looking doubtfully at his sister.
"Yes, 'tis," she asserted. "I'm lookin'
forrered to where the deakin comes in, but
you jes' tell it your own way."
"I'll git there all in good time," said
David, "but some of the point of the story'U
be lost if I don't tell ye what come fust."
"I allow to Stan' it 's long 's you can,"
she said encouragingly, "seein' what v/ork
I had gettin' ye started. Did ye find out
anythin' 'bout them fellers?"
"I ast the barn man if he knowed who
they was, and' he said he never seen 'em
till the yestiddy before, an' didn't know
'em f'm Adam. They come along with a
couple of bosses, one drivin' an' t'other
leadin' — the one 1 bought. I ast him if he
knowed who I was, an' he said one on 'em
ast him, an' he told him. The feller said
to him, seein' me drive up: That's a putty
likely-lookin' hoss. Who's drivin' him?' An'
128 Edward Noyes Westcott
he says to the feller: That's Dave Harum,
f'm over to Homeville. He's a great feller
fer hosses,' he says."
"Dave," said Mrs. Bixbee, ''them chaps
jest laid fer ye, didn't they?"
"I reckon they did," he admitted; "an'
they was as slick a pair as v^as ever drawed
to," which expression was lost upon his
sister. David rubbed the fringe of yellow-
ish-gray hair which encircled his bald pate
for a moment.
"Wa'al," he resumed, "after the talk with
the barn man, I smelt woolen stronger 'n
ever, but I didn't say nothin', an' had the
mare hitched an' started back. Old Jinny
drives with one hand, an' I c'd watch the
new one all right, an' as we come along I
begun to think I wa'n't stuck after all, I
never see a hoss travel evener an' nicer, an'
when we come to a good level place I sent
the old mare along the best she knew, an'
the new one never broke his gait, an' kep'
right up 'ithout 'par'ntly half tryin'; an'
Jinny don't take most folks' dust neither. I
swan! 'fore I got home I reckoned I'd jest
as good as made seventy-five anyway."
"Then the' wa'n't nothin' the matter
with him, after all," commented Mrs. Bix-
bee in rather a disappointed tone.
"The meanest thing top of the earth was
the matter with him," declared David, "but
I didn't find it out till the next afternoon,
an' then I found it out good. I hitched him
to the open buggy an' went 'round by the
East road, 'cause that ain't so much trav-
elled. He went along all right till we got
a mile or so out of the village, an' then I
slowed him down to a walk. Wa'al, sir, scat
my ! He hadn't walked more'n a rod
'fore he come to a dead stan'still. I clucked
an' gitapp'd, an' finely took the gad to him
a little; but he only jes' kind o' humped up
a little, an' stood like he'd took root."
"Wa'al, now!" exclaimed Mrs. Bixbee.
"Yes'm," said David; "I was stuck in
ev'ry sense of the word."
"What d'ye do?"
"Wa'al, I tried all the tricks I knowed —
an' I could lead him — but when I was in
the buggy he wouldn't stir till he got good
an' ready; 'n' then he'd start of his own
accord an' go on a spell, an' — "
"Did he keep it up?" Mrs. Bixbee inter-
rupted.
"Wa'al, I s'd say he did. I finely got home
with the critter, but I thought one time I'd
either hev to lead him or spend the night
on the East road. He balked five sep'rate
times, varyin' in length, an' it was dark
when we struck the barn."
"I should hev thought you'd a wanted to
kill him," said Mrs. Bixbee; "an' the fellers
that sold him to ye, too."
"The' was times," David replied, with a
nod of his head, "when if he'd a fell down
dead I wouldn't hev figured on puttin' a
band on my hat, but it don't never pay
to git mad with a hoss; an' as fur 's the
feller I bought him of, when I remembered
how he told me he'd stand without hitchin',
I swan! I had to laugh. I did, fer a fact.
'Stand without hitchin'!' He, he, he!"
"I guess you wouldn't think it was so
awful funny if you hadn't gone an' stuck
that horse onto Deakin Perkins — an' I don't
see how you done it."
"Mebbe that is part of the joke," David
allowed, "an' I'll tell ye th' rest on't. Th'
next day I hitched the new one to th'
dem'crat wagin an' put in a lot of straps an'
rope, an' started off fer the East road agin.
He went fust rate till we come to about the
place where we had the fust trouble, an',
sure enough, he balked agin. I leaned over
David
an' hit him a smart cut on the off shoulder,
but he only humped a little, an' never lifted
a foot. I hit him another lick, with the
self-same result. Then I got down an' I
strapped that animal so't he couldn't move
nothin' but his head an' tail, an' got back
into the buggy. Wa'al, bomby, it may 'a'
ben ten minutes, or it may 'a' ben more or
less — it's slow work settin' still behind a
balkin' horse — he was ready to go on his
own account, but he couldn't budge. He
kind o' looked around, much as to say,
'What on earth's the matter?' an' then he
tried another move, an' then another, but
no go. Then I got down an' took the
hopples off an' then climbed back into the
buggy, an' says 'Cluck,' to him, an' off he
stepped as chipper as could be, an' we went
joggin' along all right mebbe two mile, an'
when I slowed up, up he come agin. I gin
him another clip in the same place on the
shoulder, an' I got down an' tied him up
agin, an' the same thing happened as be-
fore, on'y it didn't take him quite so long
to make up his mind about startin', an' we
went some further without a hitch. But I
had to go through the pufformance the
third time before he got it into his head
that if he didn't go when 7 wanted he
couldn't go when he wanted, an' that didn't
suit him; an' when he felt the whip on his
shoulder it meant bus'nis."
"Was that the end of his balkin' V asked
Mrs. Bixbee.
"I had to give him one more go-round,"
said David, "an' after that I didn't have no
more trouble with him. He showed symp-
toms at times, but a touch of the whip on
the shoulder alwus fetched him. I alwus car-
ried them straps, though, till the last two
three times."
"Wa'al, what's the deakin kickin' about,
Harum jTq
then.''" asked Aunt Polly. 'Tou'rc jes' sayin'
you broke him of balkin'."
"Wa'al," said David slov/ly, "some hr>ssc$
will balk with some folks an' not with
others. You can't most alwus gcn'ally tell."
"Didn't the deakin have a chance to try
him?"
"He had all the chance he ast fer," re-
plied David. "Fact is, he done most of the
sellin', as well 's the buyin', himself."
"How's that?"
"Wa'al," said David, "it come about like
this: After I'd got the boss where I c'd
handle him I begun to think I'd had some
int'restin' an' valu'ble experience, an' it
wa'n't scurcely fair to keep it all to myself.
I didn't want no patent on't, an' I was
willin' to let some other feller git a piece.
So one mornin', week before last — let's see,
week ago Tuesday it was, an' a mighty nice
mornin' it was, too — one o' them days that
kind o' lib'ral up your mind — I allowed to
hitch an' drive up past the deakin's an' back,
an' mebbe git somethin' to strengthen my
faith, et cetery, in case I run acrost him.
Wa'al, 's I come along I seen the deakin
putterin' 'round, an' I waved my hand to
him an' went by a-kitin'. I went up the
road a ways an' killed a little time, an' when
I come back there was the deakin, as I ex-
pected. He was leanin' over the fence, an'
as I jogged up he hailed me, an' I pulled up.
" 'Mornin', Mr. Harum,' he says.
"'Mornin', deakin,' I says. 'How are ye?
an' how's Mis' Perkins these days?'
" 'I'm fair,' he says; 'fair to middlin', but
Mis' Perkins is ailin' some — as usyui/ he
says."
"They do say," put in Mrs. Bixbee, "thet
Mis' Perkins don't hev much of a time her-
self."
"Guess she hez all the time tlie' is,"
130
Edward Noyes Westcott
answered David. *Wa'al," he went on, "we
passed the time o' day, an' talked a spell
about the weather an' all that, an' finely I
straightened up the lines as if I was goin'
on, an' then I says: *0h, by the way,' I
says, *I jest thought on't. I heard Dominie
White was lookin' fer a hoss that'd suit
him.' *I hain't heard,' he says; but I see in
a minute he had — an' it really was a fact —
an' I says: ^Fve got a roan colt risin' five,
that I took on a debt a spell ago, that I'll
sell reasonable, that's as likely an' nice ev'ry
way a young hoss as ever I owned. I don't
need him,' I says, *an' didn't want to take
him, but it was that or nothin' at the time
an' glad to git it, an' I'll sell him a barg'in.
Now what I want to say to you, deakin, is
this: That hoss 'd suit the dominie to a tee
in my opinion, but the dominie won't come
to me. Now if you was to say to him — bein'
in his church an' all thet,' I says, *that you
c'd git him the right kind of a hoss, he'd
believe you, an' you an' me 'd be doin' a
little stroke of bus'nis, an' a favor to the
dominie into the bargain. The dominie's
well off,' I says, an' c'n afford to drive a
good hoss.' "
"What did the deakin say.^^" asked Aunt
Polly as David stopped for breath.
"I didn't expect him to jump down my
throat," he answered; "but I seen him prick
up his ears, an' all the time I was talkin'
I noticed him lookin' my hoss over, head an'
foot. *Now I 'member,' he says, 'hearin'
sunthin' 'bout Mr. White's lookin' fer a
hoss, though when you fust spoke on't it
had slipped my mind. Of course,' he says,
'the' ain't any real reason why Mr. White
shouldn't deal with you direct, an' yit meb-
be I could do more with him 'n you could.
But,' he says, 'I wa'n't cal'latin' to go t'
the village this mornin', an' I sent my hired
man off with my drivin' horse. Mebbe I'll
drop 'round in a day or two/ he says, *an'
look at the roan.'
" Tou mightn't ketch me,' I says, *an' I
want to show him myself; an' more'n that,'
I says, 'Dug Robinson's after the dominie.
I'll tell ye,' I says, *you jest git in 'ith me
an' go down an' look at him, an' I'll send
ye back or drive ye back, an' if you've got
anythin' special on hand you needn't be
gone three quarters of an hour,' I says."
"He come, did he.?" inquired Mrs. Bix-
bee.
"He done so" said David sententiously.
"Jest as I knowed he would, after he'd
hem'd an' haw'd about so much, an' he rode
a mile an' a half livelier 'n he done in a
good while, I reckon. He had to pull that
old broadbrim of his'n down to his ears,
an' don't you fergit it. He, he, he, he! The
road was jest full o' bosses. Wa'al, we drove
into the yard, an' I told the hired man to
unhitch the bay hoss an' fetch out the roan,
an' while he was bein' unhitched the deakin
stood 'round an' never took his eyes ofl'n
him, an' I knowed I wouldn't sell the
deakin no roan hoss that day, even if I
wanted to. But when he come out I begun
to crack him up, an' I talked hoss fer all I
was wuth. The deakin looked him over in
a don't-care kind of a way, an' didn't 'par-
ently give much heed to what I was sayin'.
Finely I says, 'Wa'al, what do you think of
him?' 'Wa'al,' he says, 'he seems to be a
likely enough critter, but I don't believe
he'd suit Mr. White — 'fraid not,' he says.
'What you askin' fer him?' he says. 'One-
fifty,' I says, 'an' he's a cheap hoss at the
money'; but," added the speaker with a
laugh, "I knowed I might 's well of said a
thousan'. The deakin wa'n't buyin' no roan
colts that mornin'."
David Harum
131
"What did he say?" asked Mrs. Bixbee.
" *Wa'al/ he says, 'wa'al, I guess you ought
to git that much fcr him, but I'm 'fraid he
ain't what Mr. White wants/ An' then,
*That's quite a hoss we come down with,'
he says. *Had him long?' ']cs long 'nough
to git 'quainted with him,' I says. *Don't you
want the roan fer your own use?' I says.
*Mebbe we c'd shade the price a little.' *No,'
he says, 1 guess not. I don't need another
hoss jes' now.' An' then, after a minute he
says: *Say, mebbe the bay hoss we drove 'd
come nearer the mark fer White, if he's all
right. Jest as soon I'd look at him?' he says.
'Wa'al, I hain't no objections, but I guess
he's more of a hoss than the dominie 'd
care for, but I'll go an' fetch him out,' I
says. So I brought him out, an' the deakin
looked him all over. I see it was a case of
love at fust sight, as the story-books says.
*Looks all right,' he says. 'I'll tell ye, I says,
*what the feller I bought him of told me.'
'What's that?' says the deakin. *He said to
me,' I says, ' "that hoss hain't got a scratch
ner a pimple on him. He's sound an' kind,
an' '11 stand without hitchin', an' a lady c'd
drive him as well 's a man."
" 'That's what he said to me,' I says, 'an'
it's every word on't true. You've seen
whether or not he c'n travel,' I says, *an', so
fur 's I've seen, he ain't 'fraid of nothin'.'
*D'ye want to sell him?' the deakin says.
*Wa'al,' I says 1 ain't oflerin' him fer sale.
You'll go a good ways,' I says, ' 'fore you'll
strike such another; but, of course, he ain't
the only hoss in the world, an' I never had
anythin' in the hoss line I wouldn't sell at
some price.' *Wa'al,' he says, 'what d' ye
ask fer him?' 'Wa'al,' I says, 'if my own
brother was to ask me that question I'd say
to him two hunderd dollars, cash down, an'
I wouldn't hold the offer open an hour,' I
savs."
"My!" ejaculated Aunt Polly. "Did he
take you up?"
" 'That's morc'n I give fcr a hoss 'n a
good while,' he says, shakin' his head, 'an
more'n I c'n afford, I'm 'fraid.' 'All right,'
I says; 'I c'n afford to keep him'; but I knew
I had the deakin same as the woodchuck
had Skip. 'Hitch up the roan,' I says to
Mike; 'the deakin wants to be took up to
his house. 'Is that your last word ?' he says.
'That's what it is,' I says. 'Two hunderd,
cash down.' "
"Didn't ye dast to trust the deakin?"
asked Mrs. Bixbee.
"Polly," said David, "the's a number of
holes in a ten-foot ladder." Mrs. Bixbee
seemed to understand this rather ambigu-
ous rejoinder.
"He must 'a' squirmed some," she re-
marked. David laughed.
"The deakin ain't much used to payin'
the other feller's price," he said, "an' it was
like pullin' teeth; but he wanted that hoss
more'n a cow wants a calf, an' after a litde
more squimmidgin' he hauled out his wal-
let an' forked over. Mike come out with the
roan, an' off the deakin went, leadin' the
bay hoss."
"I don't see," said Mrs. Bixbee, looking
up at her brother, "thet after all the' was
anythin' you said to the deakin thet he
could ketch holt on."
"The' wa'n't nothin'," he replied. "The
only thing he c'n complain about's what I
didn't say to him."
"Hain't he said anythin' to ye?" Mrs.
Bixbee inquired.
"He, he, he, he! He hain't but once, an'
the' wa'n't but little of it then."
"How?"
"Wa'al, the day but one after the deakin
sold himself Mr. Stickin'-Plaster I had an
arrant three four mile or so up past his
132
Edward Noyes Westcott
place, an' when I was comin' back, along
'bout four or half past, it come on to rain
like all possessed. I had my old umbrel' —
though it didn't hender me fm gettin'
more or less wet — an' I sent the old mare
along fer all she knew. As I come along
to within a mile f'm the deakin's house I
seen somebody in the road, an' when I
come up closter I see it was the deakin him-
self, in trouble, an' 1 kind o' slowed up to
see what was goin' on. There he was, settin'
all humped up with his old broad-brim hat
slopin' down his back, a'sheddin' water like
a roof. Then I seen him lean over an' larrup
the hoss with the ends of the lines fer all
he was wuth. It appeared he hadn't no
whip, an' it wouldn't done him no good if
he'd had. Wa'al, sir, rain or no rain, I jest
pulled up to watch him. He'd larrup a spell,
an' then he'd set back; an' then he'd lean
over an' try it agin, harder 'n ever. Scat
my ! I thought I'd die a-laughin'. I
couldn't hardly cluck to the mare when I
got ready to move on. I drove alongside an'
pulled up. 'Hullo, deakin,' I says, 'what's the
matter.?' He looked up at me, an' I won't
say he was the maddest man I ever see, but
he was long ways the maddest-/oo^/«' man,
an' he shook his iist at me jes' like one o' the
unregen'rit. 'Consarn ye, Dave Harum!' he
says, 'I'll hev the law on ye fer this.' 'What
fer.'^' I says. 'I didn't make it come on to
rain, did IV I says. 'You know mighty well
what fer,' he says. 'You sold me this damned
beast,' he says, 'an' he's balked with me
nine times this afternoon, an' I'll fix ye
for 't,' he says. 'Wa'al, deakin,' I says, 'I'm
'fraid the squire's office '11 be shut up 'fore
you git there, but I'll take any word you'd
like to send. You know I told ye,' I says,
'that he'd stand 'ithout hitchin'.' An' at that
he only jest kind o' choked an' sputtered.
He was so mad he couldn't say nothin', an'
on I drove, an' when I got about forty rod
or so I looked back, an' there was the deakin
a-comiii' along the road with as much of
his shoulders as he could git under his hat
an' leadin his new hoss. He, he, he, he ! Oh,
my stars an' garters! Say, Polly, it paid me
fer bein' born into this vale o' tears. It did,
I declare for't!"
Aunt Polly wiped her eyes on her apron.
"But, Dave," she said, "did the deakin
really say — that word?"
"Wa'al," he replied, "if 'twa'n't that it
was the puttiest imitation on't that ever I
heard."
"David," she continued, "don't you think
it putty mean to badger the deakin so't he
swore, an' then laugh 'bout it } An' I s'pose
you've told the story all over."
"Mis' Bixbee," said David emphatically,
"if I'd paid good money to see a funny show
I'd be a blamed fool if I didn't laugh,
wouldn't I.'^ That specticle of the deakin
cost me consid'able, but it was more'n wuth
it. But," he added, "I guess, the way the
thing stands now, I ain't so much out on
the hull."
Mrs. Bixbee looked at him inquiringly.
"Of course, you know Dick Larrabee.?"
he asked.
She nodded.
"Wa'al, three four days after the shower,
an' the story 'd got aroun' some — as you
say, the deakin is consid'able of a talker-^
I got holt of Dick — I've done him some
favors an' he natur'ly expects more — an' I
says to him : *Dick,' I says, *I hear 't Deakin
Perkins has got a hoss that don't jest suit
him — hain't got knee-action enough at
times, 1 says, *an' mebbe he'll sell him reas-
onable.' I've heerd somethin' about it,' says
Dick, laughin'. 'One of them kind o'
hosses 't you don't like to git ketched out
in the rain with/ he says. 7cs' so,' I says.
*Now/ I says, ^I've got a notion 't I'd Hke
to own that hoss at a price, an' that mebbc
/ c'd git him home even if it did rain. Here's
a hundred an' ten,' I says, 'an' I want you
to see how fur it'll go to buyin' him. If you
git me the hoss you needn't bring none on't
back. Want to try?' I says. 'All right,' he
says, an' took the money. 'But,' he says,
'won't the deakin suspicion that it comes
David Harum 133
from you?' 'Wa'al,' I says, 'my portrit ain't
on none o' the bills, an' I reckon you won't
tell him so, out an' out,' an' off he went.
Yistidy he come in, an' I says, 'Wa'al, done
anythin'?' 'The hoss is in your barn,' he
says. 'Good fcr you!' I says. 'Did you make
anythin'?' 'I'm satisfied,' he says. 'I made a
ten-dollar note.' An' that's the net results
on't," concluded David, "that I've got the
hoss, an' he's cost me jest thirty-five dollars."
DAVID GRAY (1870- )
The Parish of St. Thomas Equinus
from GALLOPS
David Gray^s two volumes of Gallops are too well \nown and loved
to require comment, I chose this tale because to my mind it is the most
ludicrous and the most rib-tickling of all. Furthermore, it gives what
is supposedly an accurate picture of the same type of *' horse -minded"
society that Mr. Munro characterizes with such satirical force in Esme.
And the difference between the satire and the serious is so little as to be
almosi non-existent!
T
^he bishop settled himself in an
armchair, crossed his short legs,
and gave a sigh of relief and com-
fort. Through the open window he could
see the hills across the valley and the two
spires of Oakdale village. There was a
gleam of silver in the bottom-lands where
a bend of the river revealed itself. Out of
doors the air was hot with the afternoon
sun and murmurous with insect noises, but
the large drawingroom was pleasantly dark-
ened and cool. The bishop felt that he had
earned peace, and meant to enjoy it. With
half-closed eyes he watched the tea-things
brought in and the two slender young
women seat themselves by the table. Mrs.
Alden Adams began to make the tea.
*'Did you have a good time?" she asked
the bishop.
"Yes," said the bishop; "I suppose so. It
was rather extraordinary, however. — Two
lumps and a little cream," he added.
"Extraordinary.?" Mrs. Adams echoed
inquiringly as she passed the cup.
"I think I may say very extraordinary,"
he replied in an injured tone.
Miss Colfax stopped in the middle of a
stitch — she was embroidering something.
"I suppose the rector bored you to death,"
she said. "I hope you ordered him to stop
advising the farmers to put up wire."
"Wire.? Wire what.?" asked the prelate,
as if he were hearing of a new heresy.
"Wire fences, of course," the girl replied.
"You can't jump wire."
The bishop seemed at a loss. "No," he
said, "I suppose not. I don't want to. But,
134
Gallops
135
my dear young woman, I haven*t seen the
rector."
"Why," said Mrs. Adams, who was trying
to snuff the lamp under the kettle, "I
thought you and Willie had gone to the
rectory in the victoria."
"That's what we were going to do," the
bishop answered, with a resentful note in
his voice; "but we gave up the victoria and
your horses. The ones we did take made
other arrangements."
The girl looked up from her work. "An
accident .f^" she inquired.
TJie bishop hemmed. "I should hardly
call it an accident. An accident is something
contrary to probabilities." Both women
looked puzzled. "My young friend, Mr.
William Colfax," he went on, "informed
me, as we were about to start, that the
horses harnessed to the victoria were such
*rum skates' — pardon me, those were his
words — that he would prefer to take me
with some of his own.
"I am glad he was so thoughtful," ob-
served his sister; "it isn't often that he is."
The bishop scrutinized the girl. She was
earnestly embroidering. The corners of his
mouth twitched.
"It was thoughtful," he continued. "He
had a high red cart and a tandem. Two
grooms held the horse in front, and there
was another at the head of the wheeler."
The girl dropped the work in her lap. "I
think Willie's manners are improving," she
said simply. "He hasn't been so civil to
anybody stopping in the house since he let
Carty Carteret ride Manslaughter. He must
like you."
"But I don't think," Mrs. Adams objected,
"that a tandem is the proper thing for a
bishop to visit one of his rectors in — ^not the
first time, anyway."
"I may say," observed the bishop, "that
this thought occurred to me also."
"Oh, stuff, Kate!" the girl interposed.
"We're not in town. You're rufSed because
Willie said your victoria horses were skates
— and they are."
The bishop avoided a discussion of this
question. "It may be," he said, "but I should
have preferred them to the tandem. Wil-
liam said that he believed his horses were
safe, or if they were not we should find it
out. Before I was quite in the cart the front
one pawed one of the men, and they let go
of him."
"What could you expect?" said the girl.
"He'd never been put to harness before."
"William mentioned that fact after we
had started," the bishop continued. "At the
Four Corners we met a steam threshing-
machine, and the leader took the road in
the opposite direction from the village.
Then they both ran away." He paused to
allow his words to take effect. The bare fact
seemed to him impressive enough. He re-
flected what a terrible picture the news-
papers might make of Bishop Cunningham
in a runaway, and he considered how he
could soften the information for his wife.
"They must have taken the Hemlock
Hill road," Miss Colfax said thoughtfully.
"How far did they run ?"
The prelate looked annoyed. "Really I
can't say," he replied. "I don't know the
country, you know. At first your brother
thought we'd stop for the groom — we had
lost him at the threshing-machine. But the
horses pulled so that he asked me if I didn't
think we would better let them go and
enjoy it while it lasted." He swallowed
some tea, and glanced from one to the
other of the women.
"You couldn't have been very far from
^i6
David Gray
the GallowaysV' Mrs. Adams suggested un-
certainly, as though she were expected to
say something. "We dine there tonight, you
know. Pretty road, isn't it?"
**Is it?'' said the bishop, dryly. Both
women laughed. "I dare say, I dare say," he
went on; "but I was thinking of something
else than the scenery. We stopped the horses
at the foot of the hill, and William said that
if I didn't mind putting off going to the
rectory he would go in and trade the leader
to Mr. Galloway. He said that it was no use
bothering with such a puller; and I quite
agreed with him, though I wished he had
come to that conclusion sooner."
"Willie had promised to let me hunt
Albion," said the girl, regretfully.
"Never mind, dear," exclaimed her aunt;
"you can have Alden's Thunder. I think
he's afraid to ride him himself. But you
missed seeing the rector," she added, turn-
ing to the bishop; "that was too bad."
Miss Colfax laughed. "You didn't miss
much, and you did have a good drive. Of
course it wasn't very long, but while it
lasted it must have been rare. I've never had
a tandem run with me." The prelate looked
at her wonderingly. "But," she continued,
"I don't see how Willie could have made
much of a trade, with Albion so wet and
hot."
The bishop's eye lighted up. "Yes; that
was rather extraordinary."
"Extraordinary?" his companions re-
peated together.
"How, extraordinary?" Eleanor asked.
"And you said you had an extraordinary
afternoon, too. I don't see anything extra-
ordinary about it." Sitting erect, with her
hands in her lap, and a shaft of sunlight
burnishing her hair, she was very beautiful,
and as the bishop looked upon her his ex-
pression softened.
"My dear young lady," he explained, "I
am a stout, elderly person, and for twenty
years I have gone about in a brougham
drawn, I may say, by a confidential horse.
I have had to do only with the things which
are the duties of a city clergyman. I have
been a bishop but six months, and this is
my first introduction to Oakdale, which my
venerable predecessor sometimes alluded to
as the parish of St. Thomas Equinus. Some
things about it seem a little new, you know
— yes, I may even say extraordinary."
The girl looked at him reprovingly, as if
she suspected him of joking.
"I suppose," said Mrs. Adams, "that you
are not much interested in hunting, and all
that. I know a man — Mr. Fairfield, the
architect — ^who feels just as you do about it.
He says this is the dullest place he ever got
into."
"I shouldn't call it dull," protested the
bishop.
"Well, I'm glad of that," she replied
gratefully. "I should hate to have you bored.
I hate being bored myself."
Miss Colfax yawned as if at the mention
of the word, and put a slim and very white
hand to her mouth. "You haven't told us
yet what Willie got for Albion," she said
lazily.
"I am not quite certain whether I know,"
the bishop replied. "It was somewhat com-
plicated."
"Why? Wasn't Charley Galloway at
home?" asked Mrs. Adams.
"Oh, yes. We met him in the drive and
William asked him at once if he could
detect anything wrong in the leader's wind.
He said he had galloped him six miles to
find out. That was one of the things which
struck me as extraordinary."
"You didn't think Willie was so clever,
did you ?" asked the girl.
Gallops
m
"No; I didn't," said the bishop. "There
were several other interesting occurrences,
however, before the bargain was concluded.
Mr. Galloway offered us refreshments, and
then invited me out to see his horses jump."
"Only his green ones, I suppose," said the
girl, with a shade of contempt — "lunged
in the runway."
"Was that it? There was a kind of lane
with high fence on both sides, and barriers
erected at intervals. The stablemen shooed
the horses over without anyone on them.
Then, for my particular benefit, Mr. Gal-
loway ended by sending a Jersey cow over.
You know I am the president of a Society
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals!"
"Really!" exclaimed Mrs. Adams, as
though she found it hard to believe.
"It's odd the way he loves that cow,"
observed Miss Colfax. "He says he'll match
her against any cow in America."
The bishop nervously gulped down his
tea, and set the cup on the table. "I think,"
he said, "that if you will allow me, I must
call Mr. Galloway a very extraordinary
young man."
Mrs. Adams laughed. "He must have had
that waistcoat on," she said meaningly to
her niece.
The ghost of a smile softened the bishop's
mouth. "I think it likely," he said. "It was
red, yellow, and black."
"There's blue in it, too," Miss Colfax
added. "I made it myself. Kate is a little
envious because it's more effective than the
one she made for Willie. But please tell us
how the trade came out."
"At first it seemed as though there wasn't
going to be one. Mr. Galloway wasn't sure
that he cared for a steeplechaser, or that he
had anything to barter."
"Yes, of course!" the girl exclaimed.
"It's always that way. Go on, please."
"But finally he brought out a big sorrel
horse which he called Lr^rclci."
"Lorelei? Lorelei?" repeated Miss Qjlfax.
"How was she bred?" The bishop sat up
with a start. "Oh, never mind!" she con-
tinued. "Probably you didn't ask. What cut
of horse was it?"
The bishop shut his lips tight, settled
himself again, and folded his hands.
"I mean," said the girl, "was it a harness
horse or a jumper?"
A mental conflict was going on inside
the prelate. Was it meet for a bishop of the
Church to submit to all this? But the tea
and the easy-chair and the girl's gray eyes
were mollifying his indignation, and his
sense of humor was reasserting itself.
"A jumper, I think," he answered in a
resigned way. "Mr. Galloway said she could
jump an enormous height — ten feet, if I
remember correctly." The aunt and niece
exchanged glances. "He said he had just
got her from Long Island, and didn't want
to part with her, only she was too slow
to race, and he had plenty of hunters."
"What did Willie think of her?"
"He asked me if it didn't look as though
her front legs had been fired — I think it
was fired."
"Probably had been," Mrs. Adams in-
terpolated.
"Well, Mr. Galloway was indignant
about it; and I said I shouldn't venture any
opinion — in fact, I said I hadn't any, which
was the truth."
"How odd!" said Miss Colfax, looking at
him suspiciously.
"Not at all," her aunt objected. "Some-
times even a veterinary can't tell."
"They examined Albion after that," con-
tinued the bishop. "William — very honor-
ably, I thought — admitted that he pulled
a little." There was a twinkle in the pre-
138 David
latical eye. ''But he expatiated on his wind
and his endurance, and recited his pedi-
gree."
"War-cry out of a Lapidist mare, second
dam by True Blue, third by Longfellow,"
the girl repeated. "It's very good, isn't it.?"
The bishop looked appealingly at Mrs.
Adams.
"Yes; it's capital," she said reassuringly.
"Do you mind giving me a little more
tea?" inquired the bishop. "But," he went
on, "Mr. Galloway said that he couldn't
think of exchanging on even terms. He
suggested that William should throw in a
dun-colored pony and some kind of a cart."
"The pig!" exclaimed Miss Colfax.
The bishop laughed. "William seemed to
be of that opinion. He intimated that if I
wanted to convert a Jew I had the op-
portunity. I thought it was wiser for me
to withdraw, so I went to see the Jersey
J)
cow.
"Well, how did they settle it.?" asked the
girl.
"As far as I could understand, they ar-
ranged a balance by extending the scope
of the negotiations. Your brother secured
Lorelei, a pair of cobs, — cobs, I believe, —
a brood mare, and some chickens."
"Charley's game Japs, of course," said the
girl, half to herself. The bishop looked
puzzled, but disregarded the interruption.
"Mr. Galloway got Albion," he explained,
"another horse named Jupiter, the cart, the
dun-colored pony, a foxterrier, and a lady's
bicycle. It was very ridiculous; don't you
think so.?"
The women seemed not to hear the ques-
tion. They were considering the terms of
the trade.
"It was characteristic of Willie to trade
your bicycle," said Mrs. Adams to her niece.
"I don't care," the girl replied; "I never
Gray
use it. Did he tell Charley about Albion
running away.?"
"Well," said the bishop, slowly, "as we
drove off he did tell him that the horse
pulled a good deal."
"And that was the second time he had
told him," said Mrs. Adams.
"Yes. And Mr. Galloway advised your
nephew to keep the mare's legs in bandages
for a few days. He explained that they
might be stiff after her journey on the cars.
"I have my suspicions about those legs,"
Miss Colfax remarked. "Charley is a bit
too keen for a gentleman." She moved idly
to the piano, and began to play. The bishop
watched her with growing amazement. She
played on, perhaps for ten minutes.
"That was very beautiful — ^wonderful!"
he exclaimed when she stopped. She
nodded, and swung herself around on the
piano-stool.
"Do you remember whether the cobs
were light chestnut.?" she asked.
"I do not," said the bishop; and mutter-
ing to himself, he left the room.
The Alden Adamses, their niece, and
Bishop Cunningham found the usual
party at the Galloways' that evening; but
young Colfax sent word that he was in-
disposed. At the last moment the tip had
come that there was to be a quiet cocking-
main in the village. He considered the ad-
visability of taking the bishop, who seemed
to him to have possibilities worth cultivat-
ing, but decided that it might cause talk.
The bishop was rather confused by the
fashion in which the people at the dinner
addressed each other by their Christian
names, or even more informally; but he
sat next to Mrs. Galloway, who impressed
him favorably. She was the daughter of a
Philadelphia millionaire who was a pillar
of the Presbyterian faith, and she had been
Gallops
139
married only a year. It was her first season
at Oakdale, and the bishop experienced a
certain feeling of relief in her company.
The dinner was good, if the guests were
somewhat noisy; and the bishop adapted
himself to the conditions with the cheer-
fulness of a liberal churchman and a man
of culture. Mrs. Galloway, he found, al-
though a dissenter by birth, adopted her
husband's religious preferences in the
country; and she was so much interested in
the bishop's project for a boys' gild in the
village that he was encouraged to believe
his first impression of Oakdale incorrect.
He felt again as though he were in a society
which he understood ; and, furthermore, the
reliable victoria horses were in the stable
waiting to take him home.
Miss Colfax, who sat on his right, ap-
peared content with the occasional remarks
which served her other neighbor, Jimmy
Braybrooke, in the stead of conversation,
and left the prelate for the most part to his
hostess. As the dessert was served, however,
he became aware that Miss Colfax was talk-
ing down the table to Galloway about the
afternoon's horse-trade; and this conversa-
tion attracted Mrs. Galloway's attention
also.
She heard her husband say, "Oh, yes,
Lorelei will jump anything." There was a
lull in the talk, and the words came dis-
tinctly. She looked up.
"Lorelei ?" she repeated half aloud. Then,
raising her voice: "Charley Galloway, you
don't mean to tell me you traded that horse
to Mr. Colfax.?^ If you did, you will take her
back. You told me yesterday she was broken
down and not worth twenty-five cents.'*
A roar of laughter broke from the men —
all except the bishop. He was regarding
Mrs. Galloway with silent admiration. Yet,
as Varick said afterward, he must have
missed half the joke, because he was un-
aware that the lady spoke with the authority
which clothes the bank-account of an
establishment.
Galloway, the unblushing, was for once
discomfited, and the laughter rose again.
Just then the footman whispered something
in his ear, and he hastily left the room.
"I trust there has been some mistake
about this," remarked the bishop, benevo-
lently.
"He ought to be ashamed of himself,"
said Miss Colfax. "Willie would never have
done such a thing. It's dishonorable."
"Excuse me. Miss Colfax!" said Mrs.
Galloway, flushing.
"Goodness me!" the bishop murmured.
Then in his professional voice he began an
anecdote that figured in his favorite ser-
mon; but, to his relief, Galloway entered
the room again, and all eyes were turned
upon him.
"He's been writing Willie a check,"
Varick suggested in a loud whisper. But
he took no notice of Varick. He remained
standing, one hand on the back of his chair,
his napkin in the other. A smile puckered
the corners of his mouth.
"I am informed," he said pleasantly,
"that Tim, my stable-boy has broken two
legs, and that Albion, the horse I got from
my friend Colfax today, has broken one. I
ordered him tried on the steeplechase
course, and he ran through the liverpool.
They shot him. And Tim's mother, who is
Mrs. Galloway's laundress, is going to
prosecute me. She says I had no business
to put the boy on such a horse."
"Albion.? Albion.?" said Captain Forbes.
"Is that the horse.? Well, he has rather an
ugly reputation. He ran through a jump
over in Canada last year, and killed his
jockey.'*
140 David
Another burst of laughter made the
candle-flames tremble, and an unholy
smile grew upon Mrs. Galloway's meek lit-
tle mouth. It was a smile that made the
bishop shudder and turn away his head. He
glanced at Eleanor Colfax. Her face was
expressionless. Her lips moved, but in the
hubbub only he and Braybrooke heard.
"I am very sorry," she said, "that the
little idiot broke his legs; but he probably
pulled the horse into the jump. He can't
ride, and never will be able to learn. Mr.
Galloway should have known better than to
trust him with the horse."
"That's exactly it," Braybrooke assented,
while the laughter of the others still rippled
on.
"Bless me!" said the bishop to himself,
"this is extraordinary — most extraordinary!
I beg pardon!" he exclaimed, recovering
his senses and rising hastily, for the ladies
were leaving the room.
During the rest of the evening Bishop
Cunningham, the practised diner-out,
opened not his mouth. When he eventually
reached the haven of his bedchamber, he
took up his dairy, as he had done nightly
for fifty years. Then he paused. Then events
of the day passed before his mind's eye
like the unordered memories of a play:
the red dog-cart, the tandem, the foppish
youth who calmly guided the runaway
horses and proposed they should enjoy it
while it lasted; Mr. Galloway, his waistcoat,
the jumping cow, and the peculiar incidents
of the horse-trade; the tea-table, and the
two fair young women.
Gray
The bishop had come to know many
curious things about women for he had
known many women as the father con-
fessor does ; but he said to himself that these
were a new sort. The picture of the girl
rose before him as she looked when she
stopped her wonderful playing to ask about
the chestnut cobs. He thought of her gentle
gray eyes, and then of her words at the
dinner-table when she heard about the
boy's accident. "Has she two souls," he
murmured, "or none.f^" From Eleanor Col-
fax his mind turned to Mrs. Galloway and
the way she had smiled and to her guests,
— ^gentlefolk, — who talked of broken bones
as one might talk of buttered muffins, and
seemed to consider the legal doctrine of
caveat emptor a pleasant matter of course
in horse-trading. According to his habit, he
labored to classify his impressions in the
pigeonholes of his mind, and to index them,
so to say, in his diary. How long he labored
he knew not, but his efforts were vain. His
thoughts came and went in a hopeless
jumble, and the page lay blank before him.
Suddenly he heard the tall clock in the
lower hallway sound its prelude of muffled
arpeggios, and then two low, throbbing
strokes. He dipped his pen in the ink, and
wrote hastily:
Oa\dale, October the Twenty -fourth. —
A most extraordinary day!
And below, as if in afterthought:
*^Hast thou given the horse strength?
hast thou clothed his nec\ with thunder?'*
(Job xxxix. 19.)
Then, with a sigh, he closed the book.
Races & Runaways
With doubt and dismay you are smitten,
You think there's no chance for you, son?
Why, the best books haven't been written,
The best race hasn't been run.
-BERTON BRALEY
LEW WALLACE (1827-1905)
The Chariot Race
frmn BEN-HUR
It is unfortunate that most of us first read such hoo\s as Ben-Hur in
early high-school days when we were interested in the excitement of
the plot alone and missed the magnificent strength of the writing. All
too often we do not return to these boo\s again. But where, on any
page, will you find as dramatic and colorful a picture as the one which
is here presented?
hen the dash for position be-
gan, Ben-Hur, as we have seen,
was on the extreme left of the
six. For a moment, Hke the others, he was
half blinded by the light in the arena; yet he
managed to catch sight of his antagonists
and divine their purpose. At Messala, who
was more than an antagonist to him, he
gave one searching look. The air of passion-
less hauteur characteristic of the fine patri-
cian face was there as of old, and so was
the Italian beauty, which the helmet rather
increased; but more — ^it may have been
a jealous fancy, or the effect of the brassy
shadow in which the features were at the
moment cast, still the Israelite thought he
saw the soul of the man as through a glass,
darkly: cruel, cunning, desperate; not so
excited as determined — a soul in a tension
of watchfulness and fierce resolve.
In a time not longer than was required
to turn to his four again, Ben-Hur felt his
own resolution harden to a like temper.
At whatever cost, at all hazards, he would
humble this enemy! Prize, friends, wagers,
honor — everything that can be thought of
as a possible interest in the race was lost in
the one deliberate purpose. Regard for life
even should not hold him back. Yet there
was no passion, on his part; no blinding
rush of heated blood from heart to brain,
and back again; no impulse to fling himself
upon Fortune: he did not believe in For-
tune; far otherwise. He had his plan, and,
confiding in himself, he settled to the task
never more observant, never more capable.
The air about him seemed aglow w4di a
renewed and perfect transparency.
When not half-way across the arena, he
saw that Messala's rush would, if there was
143
144 -^^^
no collision, and the rope fell, give him the
wall; that the rope would fall, he ceased
as soon to doubt; and, further, it came to
him, a sudden, flash-like insight, that Mes-
sala knew it was to be let drop at the last
moment (prearrangement with the editor
could safely reach that point in the contest) ;
and it suggested, what more Roman-like
than for the official to lend himself to a
countryman who, besides being so popular,
had also so much at stake? There could
be no other accounting for the confidence
with which Messala pushed his four for-
ward the instant his competitors were pru-
dentially checking their fours in front of
the obstruction — no other except madness.
It is one thing to see a necessity and an-
other to act upon it. Ben-Hur yielded the
wall for the time.
The rope fell, and all the fours but his
sprang into the course under urgency of
voice and lash. He drew head to the right,
and, with all the speed of his Arabs, darted
across the trails of his opponents, the angle
of movement being such as to lose the least
time and gain the greatest possible advance.
So, while the spectators were shivering at
the Athenian's mishap, and the Sidonian,
Byzantine, and Corinthian were striving,
with such skill as they possessed, to avoid
involvement in the ruin, Ben-Hur swept
around and took the course neck and neck
with Messala, though on the outside. The
marvellous skill shown in making the
change thus from the extreme left across
to the right without appreciable loss did
not fail the sharp eyes upon the benches:
the Circus seemed to rock and rock again
with prolonged applause. Then Esther
clasped her hands in glad surprise; then
Sanballat, smiling, offered his hundred ses-
tertii a second time without a taker; and
then the Romans began to doubt, thinking
Wallace
Messala might have found an equal, if not
a master, and that in an Israelite!
And now, racing together side by side, a
narrow interval between them, the two
neared the second goal.
The pedestal of the three pillars there,
viewed from the west, was a stone wall in
the form of a half-circle, around which the
course and opposite balcony were bent in
exact parallelism. Making this turn was con-
sidered in all respects the most telling test
of a charioteer ; it was, in fact, the very feat
in which Orestes failed. As an involuntary
admission of interest on the part of the spec-
tators, a hush fell over all the Circus, so that
for the first time in the race the rattle and
clang of the cars plunging after the tugging
steeds were distinctly heard. Then, it would
seem, Messala observed Ben-Hur, and
recognized him; and at once the audacity
of the man flamed out in an astonishing
manner.
"Down Eros, up Mars!" he shouted,
whirling his lash with practised hand.
"Down Eros, up Mars!" he repeated, and
caught the well-doing Arabs of Ben-Hur a
cut the like of which they had never known.
The blow was seen in every quarter, and
the amazement was universal. The silence
deepened; up on the benches behind the
consul the boldest held his breath, waiting
for the outcome. Only a moment thus:
then, involuntarily, down from the balcony,
as thunder falls, burst the indignant cry of
the people.
The four sprang forward affrighted. No
hand had ever been laid upon them except
in love; they had been nurtured ever so
tenderly; and as they grew, their confidence
in man became a lesson to men beautiful to
see. What should such dainty natures do
under such indignity but leap as from
death ?
Ben
Forward they sprang as with one impulse,
and forward leaped the car. Past question,
every experience is serviceable to us. Where
got Ben-Hur the large hand and mighty
grip which helped him now so well?
Where but from the oar with which so long
he fought the sea? And what was this
spring of the floor under his feet to the
dizzy, eccentric lurch with which in the old
time the trembling ship yielded to the beat
of staggering billows, drunk with their
power? So he kept his place, and gave the
four free rein, and called to them in sooth-
ing voice, trying merely to guide them
round the dangerous turn; and before the
fever of the people began to abate he had
back the mastery. Nor that only: on ap-
proaching the first goal, he was again side
by side with Messala, bearing with him the
sympathy and admiration of every one not
a Roman. So clearly was the feeling shown,
so vigorous its manifestation, that Messala,
with all his boldness, felt it unsafe to trifle
further.
As the cars whirled round the goal,
Esther caught sight of Ben-Hur's face — a
little pale, a little higher raised, otherwise
calm, even placid.
Immediately a man climbed on the entab-
lature at the west end of the division wall,
and took down one of the conical wooden
balls. A dolphin on the east entablature
was taken down at the same time.
In like manner, the second ball and sec-
ond dolphin disappeared.
And then the third ball and third dol-
phin.
Three rounds concluded: still Messala
held the inside position; still Ben-Hur
moved with him side by side; still the other
competitors followed as before. The con-
test began to have the appearance of one
Hur 145
of the double races which became so popu-
lar in Rome during the later Catsarcan
period — Messala and Bcn-Hur in the first,
the Corinthian, Sidonian, and Byzantine in
the second. Meantime the ushers succeeded
in returning the multitude to their scats,
though the clamor continued to run the
rounds, keeping, as it were, even pace with
the rivals in the course below.
In the fifth round the Sidonian succeeded
in getting a place outside Bcn-Hur, but lost
it directly.
The sixth round was entered upon with-
out change of relative position.
Gradually the speed had been quickened
— ^gradually the blood of the competitors
warmed with the work. Men and beasts
seemed to know alike that the final crisis
was near, bringing the time for the winner
to assert himself.
The interest which from the beginning
had centred chiefly in the struggle between
the Roman and the Jew, with an intense
and general sympathy for the latter, was
fast changing to anxiety on his account. On
all the benches the spectators bent forward
motionless, except as their faces turned fol-
lowing the contestants. Ilderim quitted
combing his beard, and Esther forgot her
fears.
"A hundred sestertii on the Jew!" cried
Sanballat to the Romans under the consul's
awning.
There was no reply.
"A talent — or five talents, or ten; choose
ye!"
He shook his tablets at tliem defiantlv.
"I will take thy sestertii," answered a
Roman youth, preparing to write.
"Do not so," interposed a friend.
"Why?"
"Messala hath reached his utmost speed.
146 Lew
See him lean over his chariot-rim, the reins
loose as flvincr ribbons. Look then at the
o
ew.
The first one looked.
*'By Hercules!" he replied, his coun-
tenance falling. 'The dog throws all his
weight on the bits. I see, I see! If the gods
help not our friend, he will be run away
with by the Israelite. No, not yet. Look!
Jove with us, Jove with us!'
The cry, swelled by every Latin tongue,
shook the velaria over the consul's head.
If it were true that Messala had attained
his utmost speed, the effort was with eifect;
slowly but certainly he was beginning to
forge ahead. His horses were running with
their heads low down; from the balcony
their bodies appeared actually to skim the
earth; their nostrils showed blood-red in
expansion; their eyes seemed straining in
their sockets. Certainly the good steeds were
doing their best ! How long could they keep
tlie pace? It was but the commencement
of the sixth round. On they dashed. As they
neared the second goal, Ben-Hur turned in
behind the Roman's car.
The joy of the Messala faction reached
its bound: they screamed and howled, and
tossed their colors; and Sanballat filled his
tablets with wagers of their tendering.
Malluch, in the lower gallery over the
Gate of Triumph, found it hard to keep his
cheer. He had cherished the vague hint
dropped to him by Ben-Hur of something
to happen in the turning of the western
pillars. It was the fifth round, yet the some-
thing had not come; and he had said to
himself, the sixth will bring it; but, lo! Ben-
Hur was hardly holding a place at the tail
of his enemy's car.
Over in the east end, Simonides' party
held their peace. The merchant's head was
bent low. Ilderim tugged at his beard, and
Wallace
dropped his brows till there was nothing
of his eyes but an occasional sparkle of light.
Esther scarcely breathed. Iras alone ap-
peared glad.
Along the home-stretch — sixth round —
Messala leading, next him Ben-Hur, and so
close it was the old story:
"First flew Eumelus on Pheretian steeds;
With those of Tros bold Diomed succeeds;
Close on Eumelus' back they puff the wind.
And seem just mounting on his car behind;
Full on his neck he feels the sultry breeze.
And, hovering o'er, their stretching shadow
sees."
Thus to the first goal, and round it
Messala, fearful of losing his place, hugged
the stony wall with perilous clasp; a foot
to the left, and he had been dashed to
pieces; yet, when the turn was finished, no
man, looking at the wheel-tracks of the two
cars, could have said, here went Messala,
there the Jew. They left but one trace be-
hind them.
As they whirled by, Esther saw Ben-Hur's
face again, and it was whiter than before.
Simonides, shrewder than Esther, said to
Ilderim, the moment the rivals turned into
the course: "I am no judge, good sheik, if
Ben-Hur be not about to execute some de-
sign. His face hath that look."
To which Ilderim answered: "Saw you
how clean they were and fresh .^^ By the
splendor of God, friend, they have not been
running! But now watch!"
One ball and one dolphin remained on
the entablatures; and all the people drew a
long breath, for the beginning of the end
was at hand.
First, the Sidonian gave the scourge to his
four, and, smarting with fear and pain,
they dashed desperately forward, promising
for a brief time to go to the front. The effort
Ben
ended in promise. Next, the Byzantine and
Corinthian each made the trial with hke
result, after which they were practically out
of the race. Thereupon, with a readiness
perfectly explicable, all the factions except
the Romans joined hope in Ben-Hur, and
openly indulged their feeling.
"Ben-Hur! Ben-Hur!" they shouted, and
the blent voices of the many rolled over-
whelmingly against the consular stand.
From the benches above him as he passed,
the favor descended in fierce injunctions.
"Speed thee, Jew!'*
"Take the wall now!"
"On! loose the Arabs! Give them rein
and scourge!"
"Let him not have the turn on thee again.
Now or never!"
Over the balustrade they stooped low,
stretching their hands imploringly to him.
Either he did not hear, or could not do
better, for half-way round the course and
he was still following; at the second goal
even still no change!
And now, to make the turn, Messala be-
gan to draw in his left-hand steeds, an act
which necessarily slackened their speed. His
spirit was high; more than one altar was
richer of his vows; the Roman genius was
still president. On the three pillars only
six hundred feet away were fame, increase
of fortune, promotions, and a triumph in-
effably sweetened by hate, all in store for
him ! That moment Malluch, in the gallery,
saw Ben-Hur lean forward over his Arabs,
and give them the reins. Out flew the many-
folded lash in his hand; over the backs of
the startled steeds it writhed and hissed, and
hissed and writhed again and again, and
though it fell not, there were both sting and
menace in its quick report; and as the man
passed thus from quiet to resistless action,
his face suffused, his eyes gleaming, along
Hur 147
the reins he seemed to flash his will; and in-
stantly not one, but the four as one,
answered with a leap that landed them
alongside the Roman's car. Messala, on the
perilous edge of tlie goal, heard, but dared
not look to see what the awakening por-
tended. From the people he received no
sign. Above the noises of the race there was
but one voice, and that was Ben-Hur's. In
the old Aramaic, as the sheik himself, he
called to the Arabs:
"On, Atair! On, Rigel! What, Antares!
dost thou linger now? Good horse — oho,
Aldebaran ! I hear them singing in the tents.
I hear the children singing and the women
— singing of the stars, of Atair, Antares,
Rigel, Aldebaran, victory! — and the song
will never end. Well done! Home to-mor-
row, under the black tent — home! On,
Antares! The tribe is waiting for us, and
the master is waiting! 'Tis done! 'tis done!
Ha, ha! We have overthrown the proud.
The hand that smote us is in the dust. Ours
the glory! Ha, ha! — steady! The work is
done — soho! Rest!"
There had never been anything of the
kind more simple; seldom anything so
instantaneous.
At the moment chosen for the dash,
Messala was moving in a circle round the
goal. To pass him, Ben-Hur had to cross
the track, and good strategy required the
movement to be in a forward direction ; that
is, on a like circle limited to the least pos-
sible increase. The thousands on the benches
understood it all : they saw the signal given
— the magnificent response; the four close
outside Messala's outer wheel, Ben-Hur's
inner wheel behind the other's car — all this
they saw. Then they heard a crash loud
enough to send a dirill through the Circus,
and, quicker than thought, out over the
course a spray of shining w^hite-and-yellow
148 Lew
flinders flew. Down on its right side toppled
the bed of the Roman's chariot. There was
a rebound as of the axle hitting the hard
earth; another and another; then the car
went to pieces; and Messala, entangled in
the reins, pitched forward headlong.
To increase the borrow of the sight by
making death certain, the Sidonian, who
had the wall next behind, could not stop or
turn out. Into the wreck full speed he
drove; then over the Roman, and into the
latter's four, all mad with fear. Presently,
out of the turmoil, the fighting of horses,
the resound of blows, the murky cloud of
dust and sand, he crawled, in time to see
the Corinthian and Byzantine go on down
the course atfer Ben-Hur, who had not been
an instant delayed.
The people arose, and leaped upon the
benches, and shouted and screamed. Those
who looked that way caught glimpses of
Wallace
Messala, now under the trampling of the
fours, now under the abandoned cars. He
was still; they thought him dead; but far
the greater number followed Ben-Hur in
his career. They had not seen the cunning
touch of the reins by which, turning a little
to the left, he caught Messala's wheel with
the iron-shod point of his axle, and crushed
it; but they had seen the transformation of
the man, and themselves felt the heat and
glow of his spirit, the heroic resolution, the
maddening energy of action with which, by
look, word, and gesture, he so suddenly
inspired his Arabs. And such running! It
was rather the long leaping of lions in
harness; but for the lumbering chariot, it
seemed the four were flying. When the
Byzantine and Corinthian were half-way
down the course, Ben-Hur turned the first
goal.
And the race was won!
JOHN BIGGS, JR. (contemporary)
Corkran of Clamstretch
front SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE
December 1921
Here is one of the very few racing stories where interest lies in the
character of the horse, himself. The writer defies all recognized formulae
for racing stories and has his hero lose the race. But not only has fudge
Biggs given us an outstanding personality, he has portrayed, most
magnificently, the country fair which is the very ''mother and father**
of the trotting race.
T
^his is a record of genius. I saw
him for the first time as he lay
beneath an apple-tree, endeavoring
by muscular twitchings of his upper lip to
grab an apple which lay just beyond the
reach of his long black nose. Indisputably
it was a game which he played, and he
ordered it by set rules of his own devising.
It was fundamental that he could not move
his body, but he might crane or stretch his
neck to any impossible posture. I climbed
the paddock fence, and moved the apple
an inch toward him. He looked at me re-
proachfully, but seized it none the less, and
devouring it with a single crunching bite,
rose to his feet, and proceeded inscrutably
to stare.
He was a dumpy little horse, resembling
a small fat business man, and as soon to be
suspected of immortal speed as a stock-
broker of a sonnet. His torso was a rotund
little barrel. From this his legs, heavy and
muscular, stuck out at odd angles. A lean
neck rose from the mass, and upon this was
plastered a head, many sizes too large,
which looked as if it had been thrown at
him from a distance and had inadvertendy
stuck.
His gaze mellowed and he regarded me
more leniently. A faint smile began to
wreath his lips; the smile expanded to
soundless tittering. At last, in looking at
me, he fairly laughed. This I considered
impolite and told him so. He listened
courteously, but made no comment other
than raising a quizzical hoof. He walked
around me and looked carefully at my
reverse side. This satisfied him. He returned
to the apple-tree, yawned broadly, and lay
149
150
down. Richard Thomas Corkran was at
rest.
Tentatively I oftcred him apples, but his
ennui was not to be dispelled. Finally, he
slept the sleep of a good and honest horse.
I retired to tlie fence lest I disturb the sacred
slumbers.
Genius is an unutterable thing. It is a
spark flying from no visible flame. It is an
excitement of the soul; it is a terrific mo-
tivation. It is a vapor that splits the rock
of reality.
Richard Thomas Corkran was a strange
rhapsody of speed. He was without circum-
stance, without explanation. No great
family had crossed a bar sinister upon his
unknown escutcheon. His fathers were
indistinguishable clods of work. At the
time of his first race his sides were galled
from plough harness. Literally he was self-
made.
He was possessed of an iron will and intel-
ligence. Consummately he understood his
metier; never did his greatness overwhelm
him. He remained unmoved, his attitude
the epitome of a successful business. Yet he
was capable of a cold and dignified fury.
Always was it merited, but he worked him-
self to it, for he had found it to be an
efiBcient symbol. A balanced quietness was
his attitude upon the track, and from it
he never deviated. He raced without the
slightest enthusiasm or excitation. Icy im-
perturbability marked his technique — an
imperturbability that was unaffected. From
the tips of his tiny hoofs to his absurd head
he was polite, both to his rivals, whom he
scorned, and his attendants, whom he
considered unworthy of notice, and this
politeness proceeded from his conscious
known superiority.
One thing of all things aroused his wrath,
hot and sincere. He considered himself a
John Biggs, Jr.
free agent, and any molestation of this
right caused anger to boil within him. The
hours of his business were those which
he spent upon the track; at all other times
he came and went as he pleased. He would
permit no officious infringement upon his
leisure. As to his racing it was indomitably
his own. He considered all human aid
simply cooperation. If it became direction,
no matter how tactfully suggested, he was
done. He would not move a hoof toward
the track's end. In his maiden race, a whip
had been laid, solely as an incentive, upon
his muscular little thighs. Richard Thomas
Corkran had slid to a stop with stiffened
fore feet, and, without heat or expression,
but with icy malevolence, had kicked his
sulky to fragments of wood and steel.
Thereafter his driver, by iron order, sat
braced to the sulky, and with loose reins
simply fulfilled the requirements of rule.
The race and the trotting of it were solely
Richard Thomas Corkran's.
It was five o'clock when they came to
arouse him, and this partook of a stately,
ordered ceremony. There were five men in
all, and I presume that he would not have
deigned to rise for less. Down the field in
careful formation they advanced. First
came the head trainer, magnificently
unencumbered by blanket, sponge, or curry-
comb, the veritable master of the bed-
chamber, and flanking him, his subalterns,
two graceful yellow boys — this touch
exotic — carrying combs and skin-brushes;
next came two buckets, marked with the
white initials R. T. C, and then his oum
blanket, plaid-striped, refulgent, the one
slight vulgarity necessary to all genius. Last
of all was a small white dog, like an ani-
mated wash-rag, propelling itself forward
with staccato bounds and barks.
The process halted; the dog continued
Cor\ran of
forward, and barked malevolently in the ear
of recumbent greatness, which responded
with a slow opening of its left eye. The long
thin neck rose from the ground at a right
angle, and surveyed the halted host. Richard
Thomas Corkran got to his feet and shook
his rotund Httle body. He stood waiting.
As they combed and brushed him, he
moved no muscle, but placidly chewed a
succession of straws that hung pendulous
from his lower lip. It was a gesture non-
chalant. At length his black coat was
sleeked and glossed. The head trainer step-
ped forward and felt his chest, his hocks,
and pasterns. This he endured with kind-
ness, and, inspection over, trotted toward the
watering-trough, preceded, however, by
the white dog. Pleasurably he played with
the water, drinking but Httle. He blew
through his nostrils, causing white bubbles
to rise and burst through the turmoil of
the surface. The light, finely made racing
harness was then put upon him, and ad-
justed perfectly to each of his expanding
muscles, and last the blanket, strapped and
belted, making him look like a fat, plaid-
cowled monk. The gate was now opened,
and he walked gravely from the paddock.
Behind him streamed his acolytes in meek
procession. Heralding him was the woolly
dog. Last was his sulky, wheeled by a negro
boy. Past the judge's house he plodded, and
I saw the old jurist rise from the porch to
greet him.
The discovery of Richard Thomas Cork-
ran, and his relation to Judge Coleman, a
famous county story, deserves record.
At dusk one summer evening Judge Cole-
man, exercising a favorite mare, herself of
note, had, on the Clamstretch, come upon
a son of a neighboring farmer, atop the
height of an old-fashioned racing sulky, a
wooden affair with high shaking wheels.
Clamstretch 151
Beneath this relic, for the sulky jutted out
almost over his rump, careened an odd
little horse, looking in the darkness, so
says the judge, like a small, black mouse.
'Til race you, Tommy," said the judge
jokingly to the boy.
"Done," was the reply, and the little horse
moved up to the mare's nose.
"Take a handicap. Tommy," said the
judge, amused by the boy's confidence.
''You take the handicap, judge," said the
boy, and the judge, fearful of hurting the
boy's feelings, walked his mare some ten
yards to the front.
*'Now!" shouted the boy, and the judge
heard with amazement the strong, un-
believably quick beat of the little horse's
hoofs as he struck to his stride through the
white dust of the road. Past the striving
mare he went as if she were haltered to
the ground. Three times was this astound-
ing performance repeated, while the strain-
ing nostrils of the mare grew red with effort.
The judge pulled to the side of the road.
"What do you use that horse for?" he
asked.
"For ploughin'," replied the boy, and he
was near tears with pride and rage. "I have
to use him for ploughin'."
"What do you call him?" went on the
judge.
"Richard Thomas Corkran," replied the
boy. "After grandpop."
Then and there, for an adequate price,
Richard Thomas Corkran changed hands,
and the judge that night examining him by
the light of a stable-lantern discovered the
marks of plough-galls upon liis flanks.
No attempt was made to teach R. T. C. to
race; none was ever needed. When the
time came for a race he plodded to the
track, and from thence to the starting-point,
and thereafter at some time favorable to
152
]ohn Biggs, ]r.
himself he commenced to trot. No agitation
of spectators or contesting horses, no
jockeying of drivers, might shake his icy
impcrturbabiHty, his utter cahii. The race
done and won, he returned at a walk to
his paddock. In tw^o years upon the Grand
Circuit he had never missed a meeting nor
ever lost a race.
With something of awe I watched him
as he passed between the high stone posts
of the judge's entrance gate and entered
the Clamstretch.
This road is a long white ribbon which
runs from the Porter Ferry to the hills. Its
crown is covered with clam-shells beaten
to a soft imponderable dust, and from this
it is known as the Clamstretch. It is agreed
by county racing authorities that from the
centre of the ferry-gate to the old Weldin
Oak is a perfect half-mile, and a horse
that covers that distance under two minutes
is worthy of notice. Richard Thomas Cork-
ran, when the humor was upon him, had
trotted the exact half-mile in one minute
and five seconds.
It is a county saying that colts the day
they are born are instructed by their mother
mares in the trotting of the Clamstretch.
Beneath the old Weldin Oak and lining
the road are rough wooden benches, and
before them the ground had been worn
bare and hard by many feet. At the side
of the road sways a decrepit whitewashed
stand, as high as a man's chest, and with
two cracker-boxes for steps. This is the of-
ficial stand of the judge of the course when
such a formality is necessary.
The customs of the Clamstretch have
grown up with time, and are as unbending
as bronze. It is decreed that Judge Coleman
shall be the ruling authority of the meeting,
that the time of trotting shall be from
twilight to darkness, and that there shall
be as much racing as the light permits.
First the horsemen gather and solemnly
trot practice heats, each driver carefully
keeping his animal from showing its true
worth, though the exact record of each is
known to all. Then, with stable boys at
the horses' heads, they collect in little
groups about the oak, and with tobacco,
portentous silences, and great gravity lay
careful bets. But with the entrance of the
judge comes drama.
He minces across the bare space before
the oak and nods gravely to each friend.
From an interior pocket of his immaculate
gray coat he draws a small black book, the
official record of the Clamstretch. In this
book he enters the contesting horses, the
names of the owners, and the bets. This
finished, the four horsemen selected for the
first race pass to the road, briefly inspect
their gear, climb to the sulkies, sit magni-
ficently upon the outstretched tails of their
horses, and with whips at point, drive
slowly toward the gate of the ferry lodge.
The noise of the hoofs dies to abrupt
silence as the contestants jockey for position
at the start, broken by the sudden thunder
of the race. Puffs of white dust, hanging
low over the road, rise beneath the drum-
ming hoofs; strained red nostrils flash
across the finish. Comes the stentorian
voice of tht announcer, giving the winner
and the time. Gradually the soft light fades ;
the last race is ended; the judge bids the
company a grave good night, and the red
point of his cigar disappears in the gloom
of the meadow.
There are many names great in the his-
tory of racing, whose owners have trotted
the broad white road and have been duly
inscribed in the black book. From Barnett
and Barnetta B., from Almanzer and the
Bohemia Girl, forever from R.T.C., the
Corf{ran of
time of the Clamstrctch is set, and it is a
point of honor between horse and man
that when a great king falls he is brought
back to trot his last from the lodge gate to
the Weld in Oak. From Clamstretch to
Clamstretch, is the saying.
I have often witnessed the custom of the
Clamstretch, and this time I entered upon
it inconspicuously in the magnificent wake
of Richard Thomas Corkran. Upon the bare
meadow, around the old oak as a nucleus,
were gathered many horses. A wild roan
mare led the group, a young untried crea-
ture, who kicked and squealed in a nervous-
ness that turned from sudden anger to
helpless quaking. A negro at her head, a
shining black hand upon her bit, soothed
and quieted her with honey upon his
tongue and a sturdy desire to thump her
in his heart. Her owner, a bewhiskered
farmer, stood just beyond the range of her
flying heels and looked at her with dismay.
"Now, pettie," he kept saying. "Now,
pettie, that ain't no way to behave. That
ain't no way."
A hilarious group of friends, in a half-
circle behind him, ridiculed his attempts
at reconciliation.
"She ain't your pettie," they shouted.
"She's some other feller's Maybe she
ain't got none at all Give her hell, Jim.
. . . Soft stuff's no dope."
A large horse, piebald and pretty, looking
as if he had been purchased in a toy store,
stood next to the virago. Her nervousness
was apparently communicated to him, for
occasionally he would back and rear. At
these times, he raised clouds of dust, which
sifted gently over the field, causing a shiver
to run down the line of waiting horses.
"Keep 'em horses still," shouted the negro
boys. "Hold onto 'em."
One giant black, a colossal hand upon the
Clamstretch it^T^
muzzle of his horse, a mare as dainty and
graceful as a fawn, threw out his great
chest with pride.
"My lady's a lady," he crooned yjftly as
the other horses stamjxrd and grew restive.
"My lady's a lady." The pretty creature
looked at him with wide brown eyes, and
shook her head as if softly denying.
An animal at the end of the line held
my attention. His hide was the color of
running bronze. His head might have been
struck for one of the horses of Time, the
nostrils flaring and intense, the eyes wild
with hint of action. He looked as if he
might run with the whirlwind, be bitted
to a comet's orbit, and triumph. Sacrilege,
it seemed, when I learned that he had never
won a race, was quite lacking in the heart
that creates a great horse. In him nature
was superbly bluffing.
Richard Thomas Corkran stood at some
distance from the rank and file. Boredom
was unutterably upon him. He seemed
looking for a place to lie down and continue
his interrupted slumbers, and to be re-
strained only by the fear that he might be
considered gauche. Truly there was nothing
in which he might be honestly interested.
No horse present could give him even the
beginnings of a race. His heaviest w^ork
had been done upon the grand circuit in
the spring and early summer. Vacation and
leisure possessed him for this day at least.
True, upon the next day he was to trot a
race which was, perhaps, the most impor-
tant of his career. Now, through the
courtesy of the judge, he was the piece de
resistance, the staple, of the evening. At the
end of the racing he would trot a heat in
solitary grandeur — one heat, not more, and
this heat would be preparation for to-mor-
row's test. Two horses, strategically placed
over the straight half-mile, would pace him.
154
]ohn Biggs, /r.
but they would have as little to do with
his trotting as the distance posts upon the
track. A little knot of men, gaping and
solemn, had already gathered about him,
interpreting his every bored motion as proof
positive of his phenomenal speed. He
accepted this as his due and was in no
manner affected by it.
The men, as always, interested me. A
few were professional horsemen, so marked
and moulded. They were calm persons,
who spoke without gesture or facial ex-
pression. Thought flowed soundlessly be-
hind their shrewd eyes. Their attitude was
one of continual weighing and balancing of
mighty points.
The rest were prosperous farmers,
coimtry gentlemen, or honest artisans from
the near-by village, all pleasure-bent. The
regalia of those who were to drive, or hoped
to drive, was unique. They seemed to ex-
press their personalities best through high
black boots, striped trousers, and flaming
calico shirts. The climacteric pinnacle was
usually reached with an inherited racing-
cap, scarlet, ochre, brown, yellow, plaid.
Twilight cupped the world, seeming to
grant a hush to earth. The road took on
a new whiteness, the meadow gradually
darkening, touched by the night and the
brooding quietness that comes as the sun
goes down.
The first race came to a close — a torrent
of young horses. The wild-eyed virago was
among them, and she won by a prodigious
stretching of the neck. Thereat, totally un-
able to withstand triumph, she bucked and
squealed, dragging her sulky, that torment-
ing appendage, behind her.
"Shure, it's temperamental she is," said
a Scotch-Irish farmer standing beside me.
"But she might have walked in on her
hands and won."
The spectacle was dramatic. There was a
flurry of horse and man as a race was called,
a rushing to the track's edge by the specta-
tors, a happy bustling of self-important
officials. From the knots of excited human-
ity emerged the horses, the drivers with
their whips at trail beneath their elbows,
their eyes self-consciously upon the ground.
Slender sulkies, gossamer-wheeled, were
pulled out, tested by heavy thumpings, and
attached. Carefully the reins were bitted,
run back through the guide-rings, and the
drivers swung themselves up. The final
touch was the arranging of the horse's tail,
and here technique differed. A good driver
must sit upon his horse's tail. This is beyond
question. The mooted point is whether he
shall do so spread or flat. Authority as usual
holds both sides. Richard Thomas Corkran
absolutely dissenting, for he would allow
no one to sit on his tail but himself.
The horses dwindle to specks upon the
long white road. The sound of hoofs dies to
faint pulsing in the ears, a shadow of sound.
Silence follows, breathless, expectant,
broken by the clarion of the start.
The rhythm becomes a rhapsody of
pounding hoofs, quick-timed, staccato. A
black swirl up the road falls to detail of
straining bodies. A roar crescendoes to high
shreds of sound as they flash across the
finish. A second of tense silence — ^pan-
demonium.
Three races of three heats each were
trotted. Darkness was drifting down upon
us as the last was finished, and Richard
Thomas Corkran walked out upon the
track.
His small black body blent with the
semi-darkness, rendering him almost in-
distinguishable. The crowd followed him
across the track. There was no preparation,
no ceremony. The small figure plodded into
Cor^ran of
the graying distance. His pace was scarcely
above a walk. He might have been a
plough-horse returning from a day of labor.
The spectators drew back to the road's edge.
The twilight deepened. We waited in
silence. A faint drum of hoofs sounded
down the wind. Sharper, swifter, it grew.
A black Hne split the darkness, lengthening
so quickly as to vanquish eyesight. There
was an incredible twinkling of legs as he
passed me, a glimpse of square-set method-
ical shoulders, which moved with the drive
of pistons, of a free floating tail spread to
the rushing scythe of air. He finished.
Carefully he stopped, not too sharply
lest he strain himself. He turned and plod-
ded toward the oak, where hung his
blanket, and as its folds fell upon him he
returned to peaceful contemplation.
Came the voice of the announcer, a
hoarse bellow through the gloom — "Ti-i-
ime by the ha-a-alf. Ooone — five — an' —
two — ^fi-i-ifths!!" A roar of applause broke
to scattered clapping. Relaxation from the
tension expressed itself in laughter, jest,
and play. The crowd prepared to go home.
The Clamstretch was for that day done.
After dinner Judge Coleman, whose guest
I was, and myself walked down the close-
cropped green to the paddock fence. A
moon had risen, bathing the land in clear
pale yellow. Within the paddock and be-
neath his apple-tree lay Richard Thomas
Corkran. He rested upon his side, his small
torso rising and falling gently with the
even flow of his breath. From his upper
lip protruded a straw which moved gently
as the air was expelled from his nostrils.
Untroubled by thoughts of to-morrow's
race, he was again sound asleep.
The next morning I saw him leave his
paddock for the fair grounds. A large truck,
whose side just disclosed the upper edge
Clamstretch 155
of his rotund, barrelled little body, held
him, his three attendants, and his staccato,
white and woolly dog. His placid eye fell
upon me as he passed, and 1 saluted and
followed him.
The site of the State Fair was a great
fenced field upon the outskirts of a near-by
city. Upon one side towered a huge grand
stand, facing a broad and dusty half-mile
track. In the gigantic oval, thus formed,
was a smaller ring, tan-barked and barri-
caded, used at times as a horse-show ring,
across a corner of which was now built a
small, precarious wooden platform, where
vaudeville teams disported themselves in a
bedlam of sound for the free edification
of the multitude.
On the outside of the oval of track,
stretched the Midway, in parlance "Mighty,"
a herd of tents and roughboard shacks, a
staggering line, running to a quiet negro
graveyard, overgrown with yellow grass
and flecked with the gray of forgotten
tombstones.
Toward the city in larger tents and squat,
unsided buildings, were the farming ex-
hibits, and between these and the outer
road the racing stables, flanking a hard
beaten square, in whose centre leaned a
rusty pump, dry for years, and used as a
hitching-post. Beyond, in a multiplicity of
stalls and sties and bins, uncovered to the
air, were huge and blooded bulls, monster
hogs, and high-crowing, cackling fowl.
Over the wide field hung a haze of dust
that stung the nostrils and soaked into the
skin, causing a gray change.
I entered through a choked gate into
which people streamed as a river banks
against a bulwark, a confusion of carriages
and cars, walking women with toddling
children, red and blue balloons sw^aying
between the ground and the gateposts,
156
]ohn Biggs, Jr.
flying bits of straw and dust, howling
hawkers: a high-pitched excitation of mob.
As I passed through the wooden arch
came the sleek backs of racing-horses,
surging toward the eight's posts, and the
wild foreground of waving arms as the
spectators beat against the rail.
The crowd was a sluggish, slow-moving
monster, that proceeded with sudden aim-
less stoppings. It was impossible to change
or alter its spasmodic pace. It rippled into
every corner of the field; it ran over fences
and beat down barricades. It possessed an
attribute of quicksilver in that it could never
be gathered or held.
Its sound was a great crushing. It win-
nowed the grass beneath its feet, and the
beaten odor came freshly to my nostrils.
It surged over itself and spun slowly back.
It never seemed to break or detach itself
into individuals. Its tentacles might loop
and cling to various protuberances, but its
black bulk moved ever on.
I wandered through the maze of exhibits,
stopping and listening where I would. The
broad river of crowd divided to smaller
eddies that swirled endlessly within and
between the long rows of buildings and
tents.
I passed glittering rows of farming ma-
chinery, red-painted, sturdy, clawed feet
hooked into the ground. This bushy-
bearded farmers tenderly fingered, and
fought bitingly and ungrammatically with
one another as to its merits.
A small tractor crawled upon its belly
through the mud, and struggled and puffed
its way over impossible obstacles. It was
followed by a hysterical herd of small boys,
who miraculously escaped destruction un-
der its iron treads.
I crossed the square where the lean,
cowled racing-horses were led patiently
back and forth by the stable boys. Always
the crowd was with me, beating its endless,
monotonous forward path. I grew to hate
it, longed to tear apart its slow viscosity,
to sweep it away and clear the earth.
Inside the buildings I passed between
endless counters piled high with pyramids
of jelly, saw the broad smiles of the presid-
ing housewives, smelt brown loaves of prize
bread. Baskets of huge fruit were allotted
place, red apples succulent and glowing,
fuzzy peaches white and yellow. The
presiding deity of the place — the veritable
mother of all food — I found in the centre
of the shack. Her function was the creation
of pie, and this of itself seemed to me suf-
ficient. She was a large woman, red-faced,
red-handed, and without a curve to her
body. She was composed of but two straight
lines, and between these lay her solid ample
self. Her round fat arms were bare to the
elbow and white with flour. On the table
before her was an incalculable area of pie-
crust, which she kneaded and powdered
and cut with deft and stubby fingers. Be-
hind her was a huge charcoal range upon
which uncountable pies cooked, and around
her were infinite battalions of pies, tremen-
dous legions of pies, gigantic field-armies
of pies. Exaggeration itself fell faint.
Before her, in the consummation of a
newer miracle, fed the multitude. All men
they were, and they ate steadily, unemo-
tionally, as if they might eat eternally. They
went from pie to pie to pie. They never
ceased, even to wipe their lips. They never
stopped to speak. They selected their next
pie before they had eaten their last, and
reached for it automatically. It was a spec-
tacle so vast as to possess grandeur. Such a
woman and such men might have created
the world and devoured it in a day.
Around the eaters stood their wives —
Cor^ran of
certainly none could have dared be sweet-
hearts — gaping with that curious feminine
lack of understanding — awed but unreason-
able — at such prodigies of feeding.
I came next upon monster hogs, buried
deep in the straw. Gruntingly they lifted
their battleship bulks and waddled to the
walls of the pen in response to the pointed
sticks of small boys. The air was permeated
with animal odor, occasionally split by the
fresh smell of cooking pastry and pungent
aromatic spices.
With the Midway, sturdy respectability
changed to blowsy, tarnished sin. Gaudy
placards in primal colors bellied with the
wind. All appeal was sensual, to grotes-
querie or chance. From the tent of the
"Circassian Syrian Dancing Girls" came
the beat of a tom-tom, like that of a heavy
pulse. Squarely in the passageway a three-
shell merchant had placed his light table
and was busily at work.
"Step up, ladies!" he called. "Step up,
gents. Th' li'l pea against the world ! Match
it an' y' win! You take a chance evwry
day. When yer born you take a chance,
when you marry you take a chance, when
you die you take an awful chance. Match
me! Match me! Match me!"
His fingers moved like the dartings of a
snake's tongue. The tiny pea appeared and
disappeared.
"You lost! Poor girl. She lost her quarter.
The Lord knows How she got it. Time
tells an' you ain't old yet . . . 1"
Beyond, outside a larger tent, sat a moun-
tainous woman, a tiny fringed ballet skirt
overhanging her mammoth legs. She was
like some giant, jellied organism. To the
crowd which gapingly surrounded her she
addressed a continual tittering monologue.
"Step up here, baby Come up, lady!
No, I ain't particular even if I am fat. ... I
Clam stretch 157
don't care who looks at me. I'm a lady,
I am. Hell, yes! See that man over there?"
She swung a monster finger toward a
barker. "He keeps me up here Sure,
he docs! You jest let me down an' at him —
ril do him in — I can make twelve of him!"
Further on the crowd clustered thickly
around a small tank, from the end of
which rose a tall ladder topped by a tiny
platform. So high was the ladder that it
seemed to melt into a single line. As I
watched, a young man climbed upon the
edge of the tank. He grimaced and bowed
to the crowd.
He stripped off a beflowered green bath-
robe, disclosing a body as sleek as a wet
seal's and like a slender black monkey,
climbed the ladder. Reaching the platform,
he posed with outstretched arms. The
crowd stiffly craned their necks.
At the side of the tank appeared another
man with a flat, pockmarked face. There
ensued an extraordinary dialogue.
"Leopold Benofoski!" shouted the man
beside the tank to him in the air, "Is there
any last word that you would like to leave
your wife and family .f^"
"No," shouted the man upon the plat-
form.
"Leopold Benofoski!" shouted the inter-
locutor. "Are you prepared to meet your
fate.?"
"Yes," said the young man.
"Then dive!" shouted the other, " — and
God be with you!" He hid his face with a
prodigious gesture of despair.
The young man drew back his arms
until he w^as like a tightened bow. For a
second he poised upon tensed legs, then,
like a plummet, dropped from the edge of
the platform. Incredibly, swiftly he flashed
down. I caught the glint of his white legs
as he hit the water, a high splash, and he
158
had drawn himself out of the other side. A
grimace of shining teeth, and he was gone.
The crowd, unmoved, went skiggishly on.
Slowly I worked myself through the area
before die grand stand, where the crowd
was thickest. There had been an accident
upon die track: a young horse, "breaking"
because of the hard path worn in the finely
combed dirt between the turnstiles of the
fence and the grand stand, had reared and
flung its fore legs into the air. A debacle
had followed as the animals close in the
ruck had plunged into the leader. Three
drivers had been thrown into a thresh of
horses. Splintered sulkies and broken shafts
lay in the debris, hazed by the cloud of dust.
One horse, maddened with fear, had run
squealing on, not to be stopped until it had
completed the mile. One driver was badly
injured.
This had had its effect on the crowd. An
uneasy ripple ran across the grand stand.
There was a tinge of hysteria in the move-
ment, a desire to clutch and shiver. As time
passed the tension heightened. In the offi-
cial's stand I saw the small, staid figure of
the judge, peering alertly at the frightened
multitude. Then came a consultation of
bent heads, and his hand swung up to the
cord of the starting bell. The flat clang, for
the bell was muffled, beat into the tur-
bulence. A gradual quiet fell.
There followed the announcement of the
curtailment of the programme to the im-
mediate race of Richard Thomas Corkran.
I cut my way swiftly through the crowd,
back to the stables, for I desired to see the
little horse leave the paddock.
I found him firmly braced up on stocky
legs as they bound his anklets. His refulgent
blanket drooped over his rotund torso, and
from the striped folds emerged the long,
grotesque neck and the absurd hobby-horse
John Biggs, Jr,
head. As I approached he eyed me with
droll appreciation, for I seemed always
subtly to please him.
As the last anklet was buckled he shook
himself. It was methodical testing to see
that he was entirely in place. Satisfied, he
took a few short steps forward, carefully
balancing his weight so that no muscle
might be strained. At this juncture the
white dog, apparently just released from
captivity, bounced forward like a lively
rubber ball. Fierce was his attack upon the
nose of Richard Thomas Corkran. Devious
were his advancings and retreatings.
Quietly did the little horse receive this
adulation. Again he shook himself.
Now was the spider-web tracery of har-
ness put upon him, the silvered racing-
bridle and the long thin bit. The blanket
readjusted, the paddock-gate was opened,
and with the small, white dog surging be-
fore him, his attendants following, he
plodded toward the arena.
As he emerged into the crowd there beat
upon him a roar of sound. Like a great
wave it ran down the field and re-echoed
back. It split into individual tendrils that
were like pointed spears falling harmless
from his small unmoved back. Through
the path that opened out before him he
slowly went, unnoticing and grave. He
entered the weighing ring.
Courteously he stood as his blanket was
removed, and he stood bared to the gaze
of the three inspecting officials. Then the
slender spider-wheeled sulky was pulled
up and attached. Suddenly I saw his head
lift: the contesting horse had entered the
arena.
He was like a legged arrow, a magnifi-
cent, straight-lined dart. Thin to the point
of emaciation, the bones of his body moved
like supple reeds beneath a lustrous skin.
CorJ^ran of
Lightly muscled was he, tenuous skeins at
his wrists and hocks. He looked as if he
might drift before the wind.
He was very nervous. There was a con-
tinual thin white line across his nostrils as
his high chest took air. A rippling shiver
ran through him.
Richard Thomas Corkran was the first
to leave the ring. Never had he taken his
eyes from his opponent. His small, black
muzzle remained fixed, imperturbable.
Slowly he plodded out upon the track.
The flat sound of the bell, calling the
race, drifted down from above my head. As
I fought my way to the rail, the roar of
the crowd rose to frenzy. The horses were
going by the officials' stand to the starting
post.
The challenger went first, his curved
neck pulling against the bit, his gait a drift-
ing, slithering stride. After him came Rich-
ard Thomas Corkran, a tiny, methodical
figure. His head was down. I could see the
sulky move gently forward under his easy
step.
As they reached the post and turned the
tumult died away to a clear and appalling
silence. Glancing up the rail, I saw the
heads of the crowd leaning forward in
motionless expectation.
For an instant they hung unmoving at
the post. Then the challenger seemed to
lift himself in the air, his fore feet struck out
in the beginning of his stride for Richard
Thomas Corkran, without warning, had
begun to troL
They swept down toward the thin steel
wire that overhung the track at the start.
In breathless silence they passed, and I
heard the shouted— ''Go./''
Like a dream of immeasurable transiency,
they vanished at the turn. I heard the
Clam stretch i^
staccato beat of hoofs as they went down
the backstrctch.
Tlic crowd had turned. To the rail beside
me leaped a man, balancing himself like
a bird.
"He's ahead!" he shouted wildly. "He's
ahead! — ahead!"
I swept him from the fence and climbed
upon it myself. Above the bodies of the
crowd at the far side of the track I saw two
plunging heads. For a second only were
they visible. Again they vanished.
They came down the stretch in silence,
the spectators standing as though struck
into stone. At the three-eighths post they
seemed to be equal, but as they drew down
the track I saw that the challenger led
by a fraction of a foot. His flying hoofs
seemed never to strike the ground. He was
like some advancing shadow of incredible
swiftness.
Richard Thomas Corkran raced with all
that was in him. His small legs moved like
pistons in perfected cadence.
As the challenger passed I could hear the
talking of the driver, low-pitched, tense,
driving his horse to a frenzy of effort.
"Boy! Boy! Boy! Let him have itl Let
him have it! Take it from him! I'm tellin'
you. Go it! Go it! Go it!"
Richard Thomas Corkran's driver sat
braced to his sulky, the reins loose upon
the horse's back. I caught a glimpse of his
grim, strained face above tlie dust of the
advance.
Again there was the wild beating of hoofs
up the back of tlie track.
"He's gotta do it now. He can't lose! He
can't lose!"
At the seven-eighths post the crowd thrust
out its arms and began to implore. The
waving arms leaped down with the striving
i6o
]ohn Biggs, Jr.
horses. The challenger was ahead by yards.
His red nostrils flared to the wind. Never
had I seen such trotting!
He came under the wire in a great
plunge, his driver madly whipping him.
Richard Thomas Corkran was defeated!
For seconds the crowd hung mute, seem-
ingly afraid to move or speak. Then from
the edge of die grand stand came a single
shout. It grew and ran around the field,
swelling to an uninterrupted roar that
seemed to split itself against the heavens —
a tribute to the victor, a greater tribute to
the vanquished!
Richard Thomas Corkran plodded slowly
around the track to the paddock gates. His
head was down as before, and his rotund
little body moved steadily onward. At the
gates he halted and waited as the winner
was led through before him. Then he
gravely followed and disappeared into the
crowd.
He had met triumph with boredom; he
met defeat, as a great gentleman should,
with quiet courtesy and good humor. There
was nothing of disdain or bitterness upon
his small, black muzzle; Richard Thomas
Corkran passed to the gods of horse as he
had come, imperturbable, alert, sublimely
sensible. But in his passing his tiny hoofs
were shod with drama. Departing greatness
may ask no more!
I saw him later in the paddock. His
white, woolly dog was stilled ; a negro rub-
ber sobbed as he held a washing bucket.
The little horse stood by himself, his feet
as ever firm upon the ground, untouched,
unmoved, and quietly resting. The thoughts
that he possessed he kept, as always to him-
self. I bowed my head and turned away.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES (1809-1894)
How the Old Horse Won the Bet
Oliver Wendell Holmes herein describes the old-time trotting race, when
the horses were ridden, not driven. It is one of the very few humorous
things on racing that I was able to find, most writers preferring to
stress its dramatic qualities. The use of the abbreviations, ''b.g.',' ''s.h.'*
always found on race sheet and horse-show program, are particularly
amusing to the reader, to say nothing of that most marvelous ^'cold-in-
the-nose" name, "Budd Doble!" Just say it aloud!
'T was on the famous trotting-ground,
The betting men were gathered round
From far and near; the "cracks" were there
Whose deeds the sporting prints declare:
The swift g. m., Old Hiram's nag,
The fleet s. h., Dan Pfeiffer's brag.
With these a third — and who is he
That stands beside his fast b. g.?
Budd Doble, whose catarrhal name
So fills the nasal trump of fame.
There too stood many a noted steed
Of Messenger and Morgan breed;
Green horses also, not a few;
Unknown as yet what they could do;
And all the hacks that know so well
The scourgings of the Sunday swell.
Blue are the skies of opening day;
The bordering turf is green with May;
The sunshine's golden gleam is thrown
On sorrel, chestnut, bay, and roan;
The horses paw and prance and neigh,
Filhes and colts hke kittens play,
And dance and toss their rippled manes
Shining and soft as silken skeins;
Wagons and gigs are ranged about.
i6i
And fashion flaunts her gay turn-out;
Here stands — each youthful Jehu's dream —
The jointed tandem, ticklish team!
And there in ampler breadth expand
The splendors of the four-in-hand;
On faultless ties and glossy tiles
The lovely bonnets beam their smiles;
(The style's the man, so books avow;
The style's the woman, anyhow) ;
From flounces frothed with creamy lace
Peeps out the pug-dog's smutty face,
Or spaniel rolls his liquid eye.
Or stares the wiry pet of Skye —
woman, in your hours of ease
So shy with us, so free with these!
"Come on! I'll bet you two to one
I'll make him do it!" "Will you- Done!"
What was it who was bound to do?
1 did not hear and can't tell you, —
Pray Hsten till my story 's through.
Scarce noticed, back behind the rest.
By cart and wagon rudely prest,
The parson's lean and bony bay
l62
Oliver Wendell Holmes
Stood harnessed in his one-horse shay —
Lent to his sexton for the day;
(A funeral— so the sexton said;
His mother's uncle's wife was dead.)
Like Lazarus bid to Dives' feast,
So looked the poor forlorn old beast;
His coat was rough, his tail was bare,
The gray was sprinkled in his hair;
Sportsmen and jockeys knew him not
And yet they say he once could trot
Among the fleetest of the town,
Till something cracked and broke him down, —
The steed's, the stateman's, common lot!
"And are we then so soon forgot?"
Ah me! I doubt if one of you
Has ever heard the name "Old Blue,'*
Whose fame through all this region rung
In those old days when I was young!
"Bring forth the horse!" Alas! he showed
Not like the one Mazeppa rode;
Scant-maned, sharp-backed, and shaky-kneed,
The wreck of what was once a steed,
Lips thin, eyes hollow, stiff in joints;
Yet not without his knowing points.
The sexton laughing in his sleeve.
As if 't were all a make-believe.
Led forth the horse, and as he laughed
Unhitched the breeching from a shaft,
Unclasped the rusty belt beneath,
Drew forth the snaffle from his teeth.
Slipped off his head-stall, set him free
From strap and rein, — a sight to see!
So worn, so lean in every Hmb,
It can't be they are saddling him!
It is! his back the pig-skin strides
And flaps his lank, rheumatic sides;
With look of mingled scorn and mirth
They buckle round the saddle-girth;
With horsey wink and saucy toss
A youngster throws his leg across.
And so, his rider on his back.
They lead him, limping, to the track,
Far up behind the starting-point,
To limber out each stiffened joint.
As through the jeering crowd he past.
One pitying look old Hiram cast;
"Go it, ye cripple, while ye can!"
Cried out unsentimental Dan;
"A Fast-Day dinner for the crows!"
Budd Doble's scoffing shout arose.
Slowly, as when the walking-beam
First feels the gathering head of steam,
With warning cough and threatening wheeze
The stiff old charger crooks his knees;
At first with cautious step sedate,
As if he dragged a coach of state;
He's not a colt; he knows full well
That time is weight and sure to tell;
No horse so sturdy but he fears
The handicap of twenty years.
As through the throng on either hand
The old horse nears the judges' stand.
Beneath his jockey's feather-weight
He warms a little to his gait,
And now and then a step is tried
That hints of something like a stride.
"Go!'* — ^Through his ear the summons stung
As if a battle-trump had rung;
The slumbering instincts long unstirred
Start at the old familiar word;
It thrills like flame through every limb —
What mean his twenty years to him ?
The savage blow his rider dealt
Fell on his hollow flanks unfelt;
The spur that pricked his staring hide
Unheeded tore his bleeding side;
Alike to him are spur and rein, —
He steps a five-year-old again!
Before the quarter pole was past.
Old Hiram said, "He's going fast."
Long ere the quarter was a half,
The chuckling crowd had ceased to laugh;
Tighter his frightened jockey clung
As in a mighty stride he swung.
The gravel flying in his track,
His neck stretched out, his ears laid back,
His tail extended all the while
Behind him like a rat-tail file!
Off went a shoe, — away it spun,
Shot like a bullet from a gun;
The quaking jockey shapes a prayer
From scraps of oaths he used to swear;
He drops his whip, he drops his rein.
He clutches fiercely for a mane;
He '11 lose his hold — he sways and reels —
He '11 slide beneath those trampling heels 1
The knees of many a horseman quake,
The flowers on many a bonnet shake.
And shouts arise from left and right,
"Stick on! Stick on!" "Hould tight! Hould
tight!"
"Cling round his neck and don't let go —
"That pace can't hold — there! steady! whoa!"
But like the sable steed that bore
The spectral lover of Lenore,
His nostrils snorting foam and fire,
No stretch his bony limbs can tire;
And now the stand he rushes by.
And "Stop him! — stop him!" is the cry.
Stand back! he's only just begun —
He's having out three heats in one!
"Don't rush in front! he'll smash your brains;
But follow up and grab the reins!"
Old Hiram spoke. Dan Pfeiffer heard.
And sprang impatient at the word;
Budd Doble started on his bay.
Old Hiram followed on his gray,
And off they spring, and round they go,
The fast ones doing "all they know."
Look! twice they follow at his heels,
As round the circling course he wheels.
And whirls with him that clinging boy
Like Hector round the walls of Troy;
Still on, and on, the third time round!
They're tailing off! They're losing ground!
Budd Doble's nag begins to fail!
How the Old Horse Won the Bet
Dan Pfeiffcr's scjrrcl whisks his tail!
And see! in spite of whip and shout.
Old Hiram's mare is giving out!
Now for the finish! at the turn,
The old horse — all the rest astern —
Comes swinging in, with easy trot;
By Jove! he's distanced all the lot!
163
That trot no mortal could explain;
Some said, "Old Dutchman come again!"
Some took his time, — at least they tried,
But what it was could none decide;
One said he couldn't understand
What happened to his second hand;
One said 2. 10; that could n't be —
More like two twenty two or three;
Old Hiram settled it at last;
"The time was two — too dee-vel-ish fast!"
The parson's horse had won the bet;
It cost him something of a sweat;
Back in the one-horse shay he went;
The parson wondered what it meant.
And murmured, with a mild surprise
And pleasant twinkle of the eyes,
"That funeral must have been a trick.
Or corpses drive at double-quick;
I shouldn't wonder, I declare,
If brother Murray made the prayer!"
And this is all I have to say
About the parson's poor old bay,
The same that drew the one-horse shay.
Moral for which this tale is told:
A horse can trot, for all he's old.
JOHN GALSWORTHY (1867-1933)
Had a Horse
from CARAVAN
One seldom meets that well \nown character, the racing tout, in any
but an unsavory situation. But John Galsworthy has made of him a
character of strength and nobility, one who, contrary to the rules of his
calling, is iiiterested not in the money but in the honor to be won. As far
as I \now, this is the authors only story about horses or racing. He shows
us an angle rarely portrayed, and, at the same time, a good race.
I
ome quarter of a century ago there
abode in Oxford a small bookmaker
called James Shrewin — or more
usually, Jimmy — a run-about and damped-
down little man, who made a precarious
living out of the effect of horses on under-
graduates. He had a so-called office just off
the Corn, where he was always open to the
patronage of the young bloods of Bulling-
don, and other horse-loving coteries, who
bestowed on him sufficient money to enable
him to live. It was through the conspicuous
smash of one of them — young Gardon
Colquhoun — that he became the owner of
a horse. He had been far from wanting
what was in the nature of a white elephant
to one of his underground habits, but had
taken it in discharge of betting debts, to
which, of course, in the event of bank-
ruptcy, he would have no legal claim. She
was a three-year-old chestnut filly, by Lopez
out of Calendar, bore the name Calliope,
and was trained out on the Downs near
Wantage. On a Sunday afternoon, then,
in late July, Jimmy got his friend George
Pulcher, the publican, to drive him out
there in his sort of dogcart.
"Must 'ave a look at the bilkin' mare," he
had said; "that young Cocoon told me she
was a corker; but what's third to Referee
at Sandown, and never ran as a two-year-
old .^^ All I know is, she's eatin' 'er 'ead off!"
Beside the plethoric bulk of Pulcher, clad
in a light-colored boxcloth coat with
enormous whitish buttons and a full-blown
rose in the lapel, Jimmy's little, thin, dark-
clothed form, withered by anxiety and gin,
was, as it were, invisible; and compared
with Pulcher's setting sun, his face, with
shaven cheeks sucked-in, and smudged-in
164
Caravan
f6^
eyes, was like a ghost's under a gray bowler.
He spoke off-handedly about his animal,
but he was impressed, in a sense abashed, by
his ownership. "What the 'ell?" was his
constant thought. Was he going to race her,
sell her — what? How, indeed, to get back
out of her the sum he had been fool enough
to let young Cocoon owe him; to say
nothing of her trainer's bill? The notion,
too, of having to confront that trainer with
his ownership was oppressive to one whose
whole life was passed in keeping out of the
foreground of the picture. Owner! He had
never owned even a white mouse, let alone
a white elephant. And an 'orse would ruin
him in no time if he didn't look alive
about it!
The son of a small London baker, de-
voted to errandry at the age of fourteen,
Jimmy Shrewin owed his profession to a
certain smartness at sums, a dislike of bak-
ing, and an early habit of hanging about
street corners with other boys, who had
their daily pennies on an 'orse. He had a
narrow, calculating head, which pushed
him toward street-corner books before he
was eighteen. From that time on he had
been a surreptitious nomad, till he had
silted up at Oxford, where, owing to vice-
chancellors, an expert in underground life
had greater scope than elsewhere. When he
sat solitary at his narrow table in the back
room near the Corn — for he had no clerk
or associate — eyeing the door, with his lists
in a drawer before him, and his black shiny
betting book ready for young bloods, he
had a sharp, cold, furtive air, and but for
a certain imitated tightness of trouser, and
a collar standing up all around, gave no
impression of ever having heard of the
quadruped called horse. Indeed, for Jimmy
''horse" was a newspaper quantity with
figures against its various names.
Even when, for a short spell, hanger-on
to a firm of Cheap Ring bookmakers, he
had seen almost nothing of horse; his race-
course hours were spent ferreting among a
bawling, perspiring crowd, or hanging
round within earshot of tight-lipped nobs,
trainers, jockeys, anyone who looked like
having information. Nowadays he never
went near a race meeting — his business of
betting on races giving him no chance —
yet his conversation seldom deviated for
more than a minute at a time from that
physically unknown animal, the horse. The
ways of making money out of it, infinite,
intricate, variegated, occupied the mind in
all his haunts, to the accompaniment of
liquid and tobacco. Gin and bitters was
Jimmy's drink; for choice he smoked
cheroots; and he would cherish in his
mouth the cold stump of one long after it
had gone out, for the homely feeling it
gave him while he talked or listened to talk
on horses. He was of that vast number,
town bred, who, like crows round a car-
cass, feed on that which to them is not alive.
And now he had a horse !
The dogcart traveled at a clinking pace
behind Pulcher's bobtail. Jimmy's cheroot
burned well in the warm July air; the
dust powdered his dark clothes and
pinched, sallow face. He thought with
malicious pleasure of that young spark
Cocoon's collapse — high-'anded lot of
young fools thinking themselves so know-
ing; many were the grins, and not few the
grittings of his blackened teeth he had tc
smother at their swagger. "Jimmy, you rob-
ber!" "Jimmy, you little blackguard!"
Young sparks — gay and languid — well, one
of 'em had gone out.
He looked round with his screwed-up
eyes at his friend George Pulcher, who,
i66
]ohn Galsworthy
man and licensed victualer, had his bally
independence; lived remote from the
Quality in his Paradise, the Green Dragon;
had not to kowtow to anyone; went to
Newbury, Gatwick, Stockbridge, here and
there, at will. Ah! George Pulcher had the
ideal life — and looked it; crimson, square,
full-bodied. Judge of a horse, too, in his
own estimation; a leery bird — for whose
judgment Jimmy had respect — who got the
ofiSce of any clever work as quick as most
men!
And he said, "What am I going to do
with this blinkin' 'orse, George .f^"
Without moving its head the oracle
spoke, in a voice rich and raw: "Let's 'ave
a look at her, first, Jimmy! Don't like her
name — Cal'liope; but you can't change
what's in the stud-book. This Jenning that
trains 'er is a crusty chap."
Jimmy nervously sucked in his lips.
The cart was mounting through the
hedgeless fields which fringed the Downs;
larks were singing, the wheat was very
green, and patches of charlock brightened
everything.
It was lonely — few trees, few houses, no
people, extreme peace, just a few rooks
crossing under a blue sky.
"Wonder if he'll offer us a Hrink," said
Jimmy.
"Not he; but help yourself, my son."
Jinmiy helped himself from a large
wicker-covered flask.
"Good for you, George — here's how!"
The large man shifted the reins and
drank, in turn tilting up a face whose jaw
still struggled to assert itself against chins
and neck.
"Well, here's your bloomin' horse," he
said. "She can't win the Derby now, but
she may do us a bit of good yet."
II
The trainer, Jenning, coming from his
Sunday afternoon round of the boxes,
heard the sound of wheels. He was a thin
man, neat in clothes and boots, medium in
height, with a slight limp, narrow gray
whiskers, thin shaven lips, eyes sharp and
gray.
A dogcart stopping at his yard gate and
a rum-looking couple of customers.
"Well, gentlemen.?"
"Mr. Jenning } My name's Pulcher —
George Pulcher. Brought a client of yours
over to see his new mare. Mr. James
Shrewin, Oxford city."
Jimmy got down and stood before his
trainer's uncompromising stare.
"What mare's that.?" asked Jenning.
"Cal' Hope.'
"Calli' ope— Mr. Colquhoun's.?"
Jimmy held out a letter.
Dear Jenning: I have sold Calliope to
Jimmy Shrewin, the Oxford bookie. He
takes her with all engagements and liabili-
ties, including your training bill. I'm fright-
fully sick at having to part with her, but
needs must when the devil drives.
Gardon Colquhoun.
The trainer folded the letter.
"Got proof of registration .?"
Jimmy drew out another paper.
The trainer inspected it and called out:
"Ben, bring out Calliope. Excuse me a
minute"; and he walked into his house.
Jimmy stood shifting from leg to leg.
Mortification had set in; the dry abruptness
of the trainer had injured even a self-esteem
starved from youth.
The voice of Pulcher boomed. "Told you
he was a crusty devil. 'And 'im a bit of his
own."
The trainer was coming back.
"My bill," he said. "When you've paid
it you can have the mare. I train for gentle-
men."
"The hell you do!" said Pulcher.
Jimmy said nothing, staring at the bill —
seventy-eight pounds three shillings ! A buz-
zing fly settled in the hollow of his cheek,
and he did not even brush it ofif. Seventy-
eight pounds!
The sound of hoofs roused him. Here
came his horse, throwing up her head as
if inquiring why she was being disturbed a
second time on Sunday. In the movement
of that small head and satin neck was some-
thing free and beyond present company.
"There she is," said the trainer. "That'll
do, Ben. Stand, girl!"
Answering to a jerk or two of the halter,
the mare stood, kicking slightly with a
white hind foot and whisking her tail. Her
bright coat shone in the sunlight, and little
shivers and wrinklings passed up and down
its satin because of the flies. Then, for a
moment, she stood still, ears pricked, eyes
on the distance.
Jimmy approached her. She had resumed
her twitchings, swishings and slight kick-
ing, and at a respectful distance he circled,
bending as if looking at crucial points. He
knew what her sire and dam had done, and
all the horses that had beaten or been
beaten by them; could have retailed by the
half hour the peculiar hearsay of their
careers; and here was their offspring in
flesh and blood, and he was dumb! He
didn't know a thing about what she ought
to look like, and he knew it; but he felt
obscurely moved. She seemed to him a
picture.
Completing his circle he approached her
head, white-blazed, thrown up again in
listening or scenting, and gingerly he laid
Caravan 167
his hand on her neck, warm and smooth
as a woman's shoulder. She paid no at-
tention to his touch, and he took his hand
away. Ought he to look at her teeth or feel
her legs? No, he was not buying her; she
was his already; but he must say something.
He looked round. The trainer was watching
him with a little smile. For almost the first
time in his life the worm turned in Jimmy
Shrewin; he spoke no word and walked
back to the cart.
"Take her in," said Jenning.
From his seat beside Pulcher, Jimmy
watched the mare returning to her box.
"When I've cashed your check," said the
trainer, "you can send for her."
And, turning on his heel, he went toward
his house. The voice of Pulcher followed
him.
"Blast your impudence! Git on, bob-tail,
we'll shake the dust off 'ere."
Among the fringing fields the dogcart
hurried away. The sun slanted, the heat
grew less, the color of young wheat and of
the charlock brightened.
"The tike! Jimmy, I'd 'ave hit him on
the mug! But you've got one there. She's
a bit o' blood, my boy! And I know the
trainer for her, Polman — no blasted airs
about 'im."
Jimmy sucked at his cheroot.
"I ain't had your advantages, George, and
that's a fact. I got into it too young, and
I'm a little chap. But I'll send the — my
check tomorrow. I got my pride, I 'ope."
It was the first time that thought had
ever come to him.
Ill
Though not quite the center of the Turf,
the Green Dragon had nursed a coup in its
day, nor was it without a sense of venera-
i68
John Galsworthy
tion. The ownership of CalHope invested
Jimmy Shrewin with the im^x)rtance of
those out of whom something can be had.
It took time for one so long accustomed
to beck and call, to molclike procedure and
the demeanor of young bloods to realize
that he had it. But, slowly, with the
marked increase of his unpaid-for cheroots,
with the way in which glasses hung
suspended when he came in, with the
edgings up to him, and a certain tendency
to accompany him along the street, it
dawned on him that he was not only an
out-of-bounds bookie but a man.
So long as he had remained unconscious
of his double nature he had been content
with laying the odds as best he might, and
getting what he could out of every situation,
straight or crooked. Now that he was also
a man, his complacency was rufSed. He
suffered from a growing headiness con-
nected with his horse. She was trained,
now, by Polman, farther along the Downs,
too far for Pulcher's bob-tail; and though
her public life was carried on at the Green
Dragon, her private life required a train
journey overnight. Jimmy took it twice a
week — touting his own horse in the August
mornings up on the Downs, without drink
or talk, or even cheroots. Early morning,
larks singing and the sound of galloping
hoofs! In a moment of expansion he con-
fided to Pulcher that it was bally 'olesome.
There had been the slight difficulty of
being mistaken for a tout by his new trainer,
Polman, a stoutish man with the look of
one of those large sandy Cornish cats, not
precisely furtive because craft is their na-
ture. But, that once over, his personality
swelled slowly. This month of August was
one of those interludes, in fact, when
nothing happens, but which shape the
future by secret ripening.
An error to suppose that men conduct
finance, high or low, from greed, or love
of gambling; they do it out of self-esteem,
out of an itch to prove their judgment
superior to their neighbors', out of a long-
ing for importance. George Pulcher did not
despise the turning of a penny, but he
valued much more the consciousness that
men were saying: "Old George, what 'e
says goes — knows a thing or two — George
Pulcher!"
To pull the strings of Jimmy Shrewin's
horse was a rich and subtle opportunity
absorbingly improvable. But first one had
to study the animal's engagements, and
secondly to gauge that unknown quantity,
her form. To make anything of her this
year they must get about it. That young
toff, her previous owner, had, of course,
flown high, entering her for classic races,
high-class handicaps, neglecting the rich
chances of lesser occasions.
Third to Referee in the three-year-old
race at Sandown Spring — two heads — ^was
all that was known of her, and now they
had given her seven two in the Cambridge-
shire. She might have a chance, and again
she might not. George sat two long even-
ings with Jimmy in the little private room
off the bar deliberating this grave question.
Jimmy inclined to the bold course. He
kept saying: "The mare's a flyer, George —
she's the 'ell of a flyer!"
"Wait till she's been tried," said the
oracle.
Had Polman anything that would give
them a \mt}
Yes, he had The Shirker — ^named with
that irony which appeals to the English —
one of the most honest four-year-olds that
ever looked through bridle, who had run
up against almost every animal of mark —
the one horse that Polman never interfered
with, for if interrupted in his training he
ran all the better; who seldom won, but
was almost always placed — the sort of horse
that handicappers pivot on.
"But," said Pulcher, "try her with The
Shirker, and the first stable money will
send her up to tens.
"That 'orse is so darned regular. We've
got to throw a bit of dust first, Jimmy. I'll
go over and see Polman."
In Jimmy's withered chest a faint resent-
ment rose — it wasn't George's horse — ^but
it sank again beneath his friend's bulk and
reputation.
The bit of dust was thrown at the ordi-
nary hour of exercise over the Long Mile
on the last day of August — the five-year-old
Hangman carrying eight stone seven, the
three-year-old Parrot seven stone five; what
Calliope was carrying nobody but Polman
knew. The forethought of George Pulcher
had secured the unofficial presence of the
press. The instructions to the boy on Cal-
liope were to be there at the finish if he
could, but on no account to win. Jimmy
and George Pulcher had come out over-
night. They sat together in the dogcart by
the clump of bushes which marked the
winning post, with Polman on his cob on
the far side.
By a fine warm light the three horses
were visible to the naked eye in the slight
dip down by the start. And, through the
glasses, invested in now that he had a horse,
Jimmy could see every movement of his
mare with her blazed face — ^rather on her
toes, like the bright chestnut and bit o'
blood she was. He had a pit-patting in his
heart, and his lips were tight pressed. Sup-
pose she was no good after all, and that
young Cocoon had palmed him off a pup!
But mixed in with his financial fear was
Caravan 169
an anxiety more intimate, as if his own
value were at stake.
From George Pulcher came an almost
excited gurgle.
"See the tout! See 'im behind that bush.
Thinks we don't know 'e's there, wot oh!"
Jimmy bit into his cheroot. "They're run-
ning," he said.
Rather wide, the black Hangman on
the far side. Calliope in the middle, they
came sweeping up the Long Mile. Jimmy
held his tobaccoed breath. The mare was
going freely — a length or two behind —
making up her ground ! Now for it !
Ah! She 'ad the 'Angman beat, and ding-
dong with this Parrot! It was all he could
do to keep from calling out. With a rush
and a cludding of hoofs they passed — the
blazed nose just behind the Parrot's bay
nose — dead heat all but, with the Hangman
beat a good length!
"There 'e goes, Jimmy! See the blank
scuttlin' down the 'ill like a blinkin' rabbit.
That'll be in tomorrow's paper, that trial
will. Ah! but 'ow to read it — that's the
point."
The horses had been wheeled and were
sidling back; Polman was going forward
on his cob.
Jimmy jumped down. Whatever that fel-
low had to say, he meant to hear. It was
his horse! Narrowly avoiding the hoofs of
his hot fidgeting mare, he said sharply:
"What about it.?"
Polman never looked you in the face ; his
speech came as if not intended to be heard
by anyone.
"Tell Mr. Shrewin how she went."
"Had a bit up my sleeve. If I'd hit her
a smart one, I could ha' landed by a length
or more."
"That so.?" said Jimmy with a hiss.
170
John Galsworthy
"Well, don t you hit her; she don't want
hittin'. You remember that."
The boy said sulkily, "All right!"
"Take her home," said Polman. Then,
with tliat reflective averted air of his he
added: "She was carrying eight stone, Mr.
Shrewin; you've got a good one there.
She's the Hangman at level weights."
Something wild leaped up in Jimmy —
the Hangman's form unrolled itself before
him in the air — he had a horse — he damn
well had a horse!
IV
But how delicate is the process of back-
ing your fancy? The planting of a com-
mission — what tender and efiScient work
before it will flower! That sixth sense of
the racing man, which, like the senses of
savages in great forests, seizes telepathically
on what is not there, must be dulled, duped,
deluded.
George Pulcher had the thing in hand.
One might have thought the gross man in-
capable of such a fairy touch, such power
of sowing with one hand and reaping with
the other. He intimated rather than asserted
that Calliope and the Parrot were one and
the same thing. "The Parrot," he said,
"couldn't win with seven stone — ^no use
thinkin' of this Cariiope."
Local opinion was the rock on which,
like a great tactician, he built. So long as
local opinion was adverse, he could dribble
money on in London; the natural jump-up
from every long shot taken was dragged
back by the careful radiation of disparage-
ment from the seat of knowledge.
Jimmy was the fly in his ointment of
those baling early weeks while snapping up
every penny of long odds, before suspicion
could begin to work from the persistence
of inquiry. Half a dozen times he found
the little cuss within an ace of blowing
the gaff on his own blinkin' mare; seemed
unable to run his horse down; the little
beggar's head was swellin'! Once Jimmy
had even got up and gone out, leaving a gin
and bitters untasted on the bar. Pulcher im-
proved on his absence in the presence of a
London tout.
"Saw tlie trial meself! Jimmy don't like
to think he's got a stiff 'un."
And next morning his London agent
snapped up some thirty-threes again.
According to the trial the mare was the
Hangman at seven stone two, and really hot
stuff — a seven-to-one chance. It was none
the less with a sense of outrage that, open-
ing the Sporting Ufe on the last day of
September, he found her quoted at a hun-
dred to eight. Whose work was this?
He reviewed the altered situation in dis-
gust. He had invested about half the stable
commission of three hundred pounds at an
average of thirty to one, but now that she
had come in the betting he would hardly
average tens with the rest. What fool had
put his oar in?
He learned the explanation two days
later. The rash, the unknown backer was
Jimmy! He had acted, it appeared, from
jealousy; a bookmaker — it took one's breath
away!
"Backed her on your own, just because
that young Cocoon told you he fancied
her!"
Jimmy looked up from the table in his
"office," where he was sitting in wait for
the scanty custom of the long vacation.
"She's not his horse," he said sullenly.
"I wasn't going to have him get the cream."
"What did you put on?" growled
Pulcher.
Caravan
171
"Took iive hundred to thirty, and fifteen
twenties."
"An' see what it's done — knocked the
bottom out of the commission. Am I to
take that fifty as part of it.?"
Jimmy nodded.
"That leaves an 'undred to invest," said
Pulcher, somewhat molHfied. He stood,
with his mind twisting in his thick still
body. "It's no good waitin' now," he said.
"Ill work the rest of the money on today.
If I can average tens on the balance, we'll
'ave six thousand three hundred to play
with and the stakes. They tell me Jenning
fancies this Diamond Stud of his. He ought
to know the form with Calliope, blast him!
We got to watch that."
They had ! Diamond Stud, a four-year-old
with eight stone two, was being backed
as if the Cambridgeshire were over. From
fifteens he advanced to sevens, thence to
favoritism at fives. Pulcher bit on it. Jen-
ning must know where he stood with Cal-
liope! It meant — it meant she couldn't win!
The tactician wasted no time in vain regret.
Establish Calliope in the betting and lay ofiE.
The time had come to utilize The Shirker.
It was misty on the Downs — ^fine-weather
mist of a bright October. The three horses
became spectral on their way to the starting
point. Polman had thrown the Parrot in
again, but this time he made no secret of
the weights. The Shirker was carrying eight
seven, Calliope eight, the Parrot seven stone.
Once more, in the cart, with his glasses
sweeping the bright mist, Jimmy had that
pit-patting in his heart. Here they came!
His mare leading — all riding hard — a
genuine finish! They passed— The Shirker
beaten a clear length, with the Parrot at his
girth.
Beside him in the cart, George Pulcher
mumbled, "She's The Shirker at eight stone
four, Jimmy!"
A silent drive big with thought back to
a river inn; a silent breakfast. Over a tank-
ard at the close the Oracle spoke.
"The Shirker, at eight stone four, is a
good 'ot chance, but no cert, Jimmy. We'll
let 'em know this trial quite open, weights
and all. That'll bring her in the betting.
And we'll watch Diamond Stud. If he drops
back we'll know Jenning thinks he can't
beat us now. If Diamond Stud stands up,
we'll know Jenning thinks he's still got our
mare safe. Then our line'll be clear: we lay
off the lot, pick up a thousand or so, and
'ave the mare in at a nice weight at Liver-
pool."
Jimmy's smudged-in eyes stared hungrily.
"How's that.''" he said. "Suppose she
wins!"
"Wins! If we lay off the lot, she won't
win."
"Pull her!"
George Pulcher's voice sank half an
octave with disgust.
"Pull her! Who talked of pullin'.? She'll
run a bye, that's all. We shan't ever know
whether she could 'a' won or not."
Jimmy sat silent; the situation was such
as his life during sixteen years had waited
for. They stood to win both ways with a
bit of handling.
"Who's to ride.?" he said.
"Polman's got a call on Docker. He can
just ride the weight. Either way he's good
for us — strong finisher, and a rare judge of
distance; knows how to time things to a /.
Win or not, he's our man."
Jimmy was deep in figures. Laying off at
sevens, they would still win four thousand
and the stakes.
"I'd like a win," he said.
"Ah!" said Pulcher. "But there'll be
172
]ohn Galsworthy
twenty in the field, my son ; no more uncer-
tain race than that bally Cambridgeshire.
We could pick up a thou, as easy as I pick
up this pot. Bird in the and, Jimmy, and a
gooi.1 'andicap in the busy. If she wins, she's
finished. Well, we'll put this trial about and
see 'ow Jennings pops."
Jenning popped amazingly. Diamond
Stud receded a point, then reestablished
himself at nine to two. Jenning was clearly
not dismayed.
George Pulcher shook his head and
waited, uncertain still which way to jump.
Ironical circumstance decided him.
Term had begun ; Jimmy was busy at his
seat of custom. By some miracle of
guardianly intervention, young Colquhoun
had not gone broke. He was up again, eager
to retrieve his reputation, and that little
brute, Jimmy, would not lay against his
horse! He merely sucked in his cheeks and
answered, "I'm not layin' my own 'orse."
It was felt that he was not the man he had
been; assertion had come into his manner,
he was better dressed. Someone had seen
him at the station looking quite a toff in
a blue box-cloth coat standing well out
from his wisp of a figure, and with a pair
of brown race glasses slung over the
shoulder. All together the little brute was
getting too big for his boots.
And this strange improvement hardened
the feeling that his horse was a real good
thing. Patriotism began to burn in Oxford.
Here was a snip that belonged to them, as
it were, and the money in support of it,
finding no outlet, began to ball.
A week before the race — ^with Calliope
at nine to one, and very little doing — young
Colquhoun went up to town, taking with
him the accumulated support of betting
Oxford. That evening she stood at sixes.
Next day the public followed on.
George Pulcher took advantage. In this
crisis of the proceedings he acted on his
own initiative. The mare went back to
eights, but the deed was done. He had laid
off the whole bally lot, including the stake
money. He put it to Jimmy that evening
in a nutshell. "We pick up a thousand, and
the Liverpool as good as in our pocket. I've
done worse."
Jimmy grunted out, "She could a' won."
"Not she. Jenning knows — and there's
others in the race. This Wasp is goin' to
take a lot of catchin', and Deerstalker's not
out of it. He's a hell of a horse, even with
that weight."
Again Jimmy grunted, slowly sucking
down his gin and bitters. Sullenly he said,
"Well, 1 don' want to put money in the
pocket of young Cocoon and his crowd.
Like his impudence, backin' my horse as if
it was his own."
"We'll 'ave to go and see her run,
Jimmy."
"Not me," said Jimmy.
"What! First time she runs! It won't look
natural."
"No," repeated Jimmy. "I don't want to
see 'er beat."
George Pulcher laid his hand on a skinny
shoulder.
"Nonsense, Jimmy. You've got to, for
the sake of your reputation. You'll enjoy
seein' your mare saddled. We'll go up over
night. I shall 'ave a few pound on Deer-
stalker. I believe he can beat this Diamond
Stud. And you leave Docker to me; I'll
'ave a word with 'im at Gatwick tomorrow.
I've known 'im since 'e was that 'igh; an'
'e ain't much more now."
"All right!" growled Jimmy.
The longer you can bet on a race the
greater its fascination. Handicappers can
properly enjoy the beauty of their work;
Caravan
^n
clubmen and oracles of the course have due
scope for reminiscence and prophecy ; book-
makers in lovely leisure can indulge a litde
their ow^n calculated preferences, instead of
being hurried to soulless conclusions by a
half hour's market on the course; the
professional backer has the longer in w^hich
to dream of his fortune made at last by
some hell of a horse — spotted somewhere
as interfered with, left at the post, running
green, too fat, not fancied, backward — ^now
bound to win this race. And the general
public has the chance to read the horses'
names in the betting news for days and
days; and what a comfort that is!
Jimmy Shrewin was not one of those
philosophers who justify the great and
growing game of betting on the ground
that it improves the breed of an animal less
and less in use. He justified it much more
simply — he lived by it. And in the whole
of his career of nearly twenty years since
he made hole-and-corner books among the
boys of London, he had never stood so
utterly on velvet as that morning when
his horse must win him five hundred
pounds by merely losing. He had spent the
night in London anticipating a fraction of
his gains with George Pulcher at a music
hall. And, in a first-class carriage, as became
an owner, he traveled down to Newmarket
by an early special. An early special key
turned in the lock of the carriage door,
preserved their numbers at six, all profes-
sionals, with blank, rather rolling eyes,
mouths shut or slightly fishy, ears to the
ground; and the only natural talker a red-
faced man, who had been at it thirty years.
Intoning the pasts and futures of this hell
of a horse or that, even he was silent on the
race in hand; and the journey was half
over before the beauty of their own judg-
ments loosened tongues thereon. George
Pulcher started it.
"I fancy Deerstalker," he said.
*^Too much weight," said the red-faced
man. "What about this Cal'liope?"
"Ah!" said Pulcher. "D'you fancy your
marc, Jimmy .f^"
With all eyes turned on him, lost in his
blue box-cloth coat, brown bowler and
cheroot smoke, Jimmy experienced a subtle
thrill. Addressing the space between the
red-faced man and Pulcher, he said, "If she
runs up to 'er looks."
"Ah!" said Pulcher, "she's dark — nice
mare, but a bit light and shelly."
"Lopez out o' Calendar," muttered the
red-faced man. "Lopez didn't stay, but he
was the hell of a horse over seven furlongs.
The Shirker ought to 'ave told you a bit."
Jimmy did not answer. It gave him
pleasure to see the red-faced man's eye try-
ing to get past, and failing.
"Nice race to pick up. Don't fancy the
favorite meself; he'd nothin' to beat at
Ascot."
"Jenning knows what he's about," said
Pulcher.
Jenning! Before Jimmy's mind passed
again that first sight of his horse, and the
trainer's smile, as if he — Jimmy Shrewin,
who owned her — had been dirt. Tike! To
have the mare beaten by one of his ! A deep,
subtle vexation had oppressed him at all
times all these last days since George
Pulcher had decided in favor of the mare's
running a bye. He took too much on him-
self! Thought he had Jimmy Shrewin in
his pocket! He looked at the block of crim-
son opposite. Aunt Sally! If George Pulcher
could tell what was passing in his mind !
But driving up to the course he was not
above sharing a sandwich and a flask. In
fact his feelings were unstable and Rustv —
174
John Galsworthy
sometimes resentment, sometinies the old
respect for his friend's independent bulk.
The dignity of ownership takes long to
estabhsh itself in those who have been
kicked about.
"All right with Docker," murmured
Pulcher, sucking at the wicker flask. "I gave
him the office at Gatwick.'*
"She could 'a' won," muttered Jimmy.
"Not she, my boy; there's two at least
can beat 'er."
Like all oracles, George Pulcher could
believe what he wanted to.
Arriving, they entered the grand-stand
inclosure, and over the dividing railings
Jimmy gazed at the Cheap Ring, already
filling up with its usual customers. Faces
and umbrellas — the same old crowd. How
often had he been in that Cheap Ring, with
hardly room to move, seeing nothing, hear-
ing nothing but "Two to one on the field!"
"Two to one on the field!" Threes Sword-
fish!" "Fives Alabaster!" "Two to one on
the field!"
Nothing but a sea of men like himself,
and a sky overhead. He was not exactly
conscious of criticism, only of a dull glad-
I'm-shut-of-that-lot feeling.
Leaving George Pulcher deep in conver-
sation with a crony, he lighted a cheroot
and slipped out on to the course. He passed
the Jockey Club inclosure. Some early toffs
were there in twos and threes, exchanging
wisdom. He looked at them without envy
or malice. He was an owner himself now,
almost one of them in a manner of think-
ing. With a sort of relish he thought of how
his past life had circled round those tofis,
slippery, shadow-like, kicked about; and
now he could get up on the Downs away
from tofIs, George Pulcher, all that crowd,
and smell the grass, and hear the bally
larks, and watch his own mare gallop!
They were putting the numbers up for
the first race. Queer not to be betting, not
to be touting around; queer to be giving it
a rest ! Utterly familiar with those names on
the board, he was utterly unfamiliar with
the shapes they stood for.
"I'll go and see 'em come out of the pad-
dock," he thought, and moved on, skimpy
in his bell-shaped coat and billycock with
flattened brim. The clamor of the Rings
rose behind him while he was entering the
paddock.
Very green, very peaceful there; not
many people yet! Three horses in the sec-
ond race were being led slowly in a sort
of winding ring; and men were clustering
round the farther gate where the horses
would come out. Jimmy joined them, suck-
ing at his cheroot. They were a picture!
Damn it, he didn't know but that 'orses
laid over men! Pretty creatures!
One by one they passed out of the gate,
a round dozen. Selling platers, but pictures,
for all that!
He turned back toward the horses being
led about; and the old instinct to listen took
him close to little groups. Talk was all of
the big race. From a tall toff he caught the
word "Calliope."
"Belongs to a bookie, they say."
Bookie! Why not.^^ Wasn't a bookie as
good as any other .^^ Ah! And sometimes
better than these young snobs with every-
thing to their hand ! A bookie — well, what
chance had he ever had ?
A big brown horse came by.
"That's Deerstalker," he heard the toff
say.
Jimmy gazed at George Pulcher's fancy
with a sort of hostility. Here came another
— ^Wasp, six stone ten, and Deerstalker
nine stone — ^bottom and top of the race!
"My 'orse'd beat either o' them," he
thought stubbornly. "Don't like that Wasp."
The distant roar was hushed. They were
running in the first race! He moved back
to the gate. The quick clamor rose and
dropped, and here they came — back into the
paddock, darkened with sweat, flanks
heaving a little!
Jimmy followed the winner, saw the
jockey weigh in.
"What jockey's that?" he asked.
"That? Why, Docker!"
Jimmy stared. A short, square, bowlegged
figure, with a hardwood face!
Waiting his chance, he went up to him
and said, "Docker, you ride my 'orse in the
big race."
"Mr. Shrewin?"
"The same," said Jimmy. The jockey's
left eyelid drooped a little. Nothing re-
sponded in Jimmy's face. "FU see you before
the race," he said.
Again the jockey's eyelid wavered; he
nodded and passed on.
Jimmy stared at his own boots; they
struck him suddenly as too yellow and not
at the right angle. But why, he couldn't
say.
More horses now — those of the first race
being unsaddled, clothed and led away.
More men; three familiar figures — young
Cocoon and two others of his Oxford
customers.
Jimmy turned sharply from them. Stand
their airs? Not he! He had a sudden sickish
feeling. With a win he'd have been a made
man — on his own! Blast George Pulcher
and his caution! To think of being back
in Oxford with those young bloods jeering
at his beaten horse! He bit deep into the
stump of his cheroot, and suddenly came
on Jenning standing by a horse with a star
Caravan 175
no sign of recognition, but signed to the
boy to lead the horse into a stall, and fol-
lowed, shutting the door. It was exactly as
if he had said, "Vermin about!"
An evil little smile curled Jimmy's lips.
The tike!
The horses for the second race passed out
of the paddock gate, and he turned to find
his own. His ferreting eyes soon sighted
Polman. What the cat-faced fellow knew
or was thinking, Jimmy could not tell. No-
body could tell.
"Where's the mare?" he said.
"Just coming round."
No mistaking her; fine as a star, shiny-
coated, sinuous, her blazed face held rather
high! Who said she was shelly? She was
a picture! He walked a few paces close to
the boy.
"That's Calliope. . . . H'm! . . . Nice filly!
. . . Looks fit Who's this James Shrewin ?
. . . What's she at ? ... I like her looks."
His horse! Not a prettier filly in the
world !
He followed Polman into her stall to see
her saddled. In the twilight there he
watched her toilet — the rub-over, the exact
adjustments, the bottle of water to the
mouth, the buckling of the bridle — watched
her head high above the boy keeping her
steady with gentle pulls of a rein in each
hand held out a little wide, and now and
then stroking her blazed nose ; watched her
pretense of nipping at his hand. He
watched the beauty of her, exaggerated in
this half-lit isolation away from the others,
the life and litheness in her satin body, the
wilful expectancy in her bright soft eyes.
Run a bye! This bit o' blood — this bit o'
fire! This horse of his! Deep within that
shell of blue box cloth against the stall
partition a thought declared itself: "I'm
on its bay forehead. The trainer gave him damned if she shall! She can beat the lot!"
176
John Galsworthy
The door was thrown open, and she led
out. He moved alongside. They were star-
ing at her, following her. No wonder! She
was a picture, his horse — his! She had gone
to Jimmy's head.
They passed Jenning with Diamond Stud
waiting to be mounted. Jimmy shot him a
look. Let the wait!
His mare reached the palings and was
halted. Jimmy saw the short square figure
of her jockey, in the new magenta cap and
jacket — his cap, his jacket! Beautiful they
looked, and no mistake!
"A word with you," he said.
The jockey halted, looked quickly round.
"All right, Mr. Shrewin. I know."
Jimmy's eyes smoldered at him. Hardly
moving his lips he said intently: "You
damn well don't! You'll ride her to win.
Never mind him! If you don't, I'll have
you off the turf. Understand me! You'll
damn well ride 'er to win."
The jockey's jaw dropped.
"All right, Mr. Shrewin."
"See it is!" said Jimmy with a hiss.
"Mount, jockeys!"
He saw magenta swing into the saddle.
And suddenly, as if smitten with the
plague, he scuttled away.
He scuttled to where he could see them
going down — seventeen. No need to
search for his colors; they blazed, like
George Pulcher's countenance, or a rhodo-
dendron bush in sunlight, above that bright
chestnut with the white nose, curvetting a
little as she was led past.
Now they came cantering — Deerstalker
in the lead.
"He's a hell of a horse. Deerstalker," said
someone behind.
Jimmy cast a nervous glance around. No
sign of George Pulcher!
One by one they cantered past, and he
watched them with a cold feeling in his
stomach.
The same voice said, "New colors! Well,
you can see 'em; and the mare too. She's a
showy one. Calliope? She's goin' back in
the bettin', though."
Jimmy moved up through the Ring.
Tour to one on the field!" "Six Deer-
stalker!" "Sevens Magistrate!" Ten to one
Wasp!" "Ten to one Calliope!" "Four to .
one Diamond Stud!" Tour to one on the
field!"
Steady as a rock, that horse of Jenning's,
and his own going back !
"Twelves Calliope!" he heard just as he
reached the stand. The telepathic genius of
the Ring missed nothing — almost!
A cold shiver went through him. What
had he done by his words to Docker?
Spoiled the golden tgg laid so carefully?
But perhaps she couldn't win, even if they
let her! He began to mount the stand, his
mind in the most acute confusion.
A voice said, "Hullo, Jimmy ! Is she going
to win?"
One of his young Oxford sparks was
jammed against him on the stairway!
He raised his lip in a sort of snarl, and,
huddling himself, slipped through and up
ahead. He came out and edged in close to
the stairs, where he could get play for his
glasses. Behind him one of those who im-
prove the shining hour among backers cut
off from opportunity was intoning the odds
a point shorter than below: "Three to one
on the field." Tives Deerstalker." "Eight
to one Wasp."
"What price Calliope?" said Jimmy
sharply.
"Hundred to eight."
"Done!" Handing him the eight, he took
the ticket. Behind him the man's eyes
Caravan
moved fishily, and he resumed his incan-
tation:
"Three to one on the field. Three to one
on the field. Six to one Magistrate."
On the wheeling bunch of colors at the
start Jimmy trained his glasses. Something
had broken clean away and come half the
course — something in yellow.
"Eights Magistrate. Eight to one Magis-
trate," drifted up.
So they had spotted that! Precious little
they didn't spot!
Magistrate was round again, and being
ridden back. Jimmy rested his glasses a
moment, and looked down. Swarms in the
Cheap Ring, Tattersalls, the Stands — a
crowd so great you could lose George
Pulcher in it. Just below, a little man was
making silent frantic signals with his arms
across to someone in the Cheap Ring. Jim-
my raised his glasses. In line now — magenta
third from the rails!
"They're off!"
The hush, you could cut it with a knife!
Something in green away on the right —
Wasp! What a bat they were going! And a
sort of numbness in Jimmy's mind cracked
suddenly; his glasses shook; his thin weasly
face became suffused, and quivered. Ma-
genta — magenta — two from the rails! He
could make no story of the race such as he
would read in tomorrow's paper — ^he could
see nothing but magenta.
Out of the dip now, and coming fast —
green still leading — something in violet,
something in tartan, closing.
"Wasp's beat!" "The favorite — the
favorite wins!" "Deerstalker — Deerstalker
wins!" "What's that in pink on the rails?"
It was his in pink on the rails! Behind
him a man went suddenly mad.
"Deerstalker — Come on with 'im, Stee!
Deerstalker '11 win — ^Deerstalker !"
177
Jimmy sputtered venomously: "Will 'e?
Will 'e?"
Deerstalker and his own out from the
rest — opposite the Cheap Ring — neck and
neck — Docker riding like a demon.
"Deerstalker! Deerstalker!" "Calliope
wins! She wins!"
His horse! They flashed past — fifty yards
to go, and not a head between 'cm !
"Deerstalker! Deerstalker!" "Calliope!"
He saw his mare shoot out — she'd won!
With a little queer sound he squirmed and
wriggled on to the stairs. No thoughts while
he squeezed, and slid, and hurried — only
emotion — out of the Ring, away to the pad-
dock. His horse!
Docker had weighed in when he reached
the mare. All right! He passed with a grin.
Jimmy turned almost into the body of
Polman standing like an image.
"Well, Mr. Shrewin," he said to nobody,
"she's won."
"Damn you!" thought Jimmy. "Damn
the lot of you!" And he went up to his
mare. Quivering, streaked with sweat, im-
patient of the gathering crowd, she showed
the whites of her eyes when he put his
hand up to her nose.
"Good girl!" he said, and watched her
led away.
"Gawd! I want a drink!" he thought.
Gingerly, keeping a sharp lookout for
Pulcher, he returned to the stand to get it,
and to draw his hundred. But up there by
the stairs the discreet fellow was no more.
On the ticket was the name O. H. Jones,
and nothing else. Jimmy Shrewin had been
welshed! He went down at last in a hot
temper. At the bottom of the staircase stood
George Pulcher. The big man's face was
crimson, his eyes ominous. He blocked
Jimmy into a corner.
178
John Galsworthy
"Ah!" he said. 'Tou httle crow! What
the 'ell made you speak to Docker?"
Jimmy grinned. Some new body within
him stood there defiant. "She's my 'orse,"
he said.
"You Gawd-forsaken rat! If I 'ad you in
a quiet spot I'd shake the life out of you!"
Jimmy stared up, his little spindle legs
apart, like a cock sparrow confronting an
offended pigeon.
"Go 'ome," he said, "George Pulcher,
and get your mother to mend your socks.
You don't know 'ow! Thought I wasn't a
man, did you? Well, now, you damn well
know I am. Keep off my 'orse in future."
Crimson rushed up on crimson in
Pulcher's face; he raised his heavy fists.
Jimmy stood, unmoving, his little hands
in his bellcoat pockets, his withered face
upraised. The big man gulped as if swal-
lowing back the tide of blood; his fists
edged forward and then — dropped.
"That's better," said Jimmy. "Hit one of
your own size."
Emitting a deep growl, George Pulcher
walked away.
"Two to one on the field — ^I'll back the
field. Two to one on the field." "Threes
Snowdrift — Fours Iron Dock."
Jimmy stood a moment mechanically
listening to the music of his life; then,
edging out, he took a fly and was driven
to the station.
All the way up to town he sat chewing
his cheroot with the glow of drink inside
him, thinking of that finish, and of how
he had stood up to George Pulcher. For a
whole day he was lost in London, but
Friday saw him once more at his seat of
custom in the Corn.
Not having laid against his horse, he had
had a good race in spite of everything; yet,
the following week, uncertain into what
further quagmires of quixotry she might
lead him, he sold Calliope.
But for years, betting upon horses that
he never saw, underground like a rat, yet
never again so accessible to the kicks of
fortune, or so prone before the shafts of
superiority, he would think of the Downs
with the blinkin' larks singin', and talk of
how once he — ^had a horse.
JAMES BOYD (1888- )
A Story of a Race in Revolutionary Times
from DRUMS
James Boyd, in Drums, gives us a tremendously vivid picture not only
of the actual running of the race and the feelings of his hero who,
so unexpectedly , finds himself riding in it but also of the general set-
up, in those days, of such a'^airs, 'Notice that there is no formal starter
with a gun, only a friend who waves a white handkerchief and calls
''Gol" The only betting seems to be either between friends, or by a man
who stands up on a chair and calls his bids.
Also, the recce is run in three heats with no objection, apparently, to
the changing of ]oc\eys between heats, The heats are four miles each so
that the horses had to run twelve miles in all, something of a test indeed!
When one compares the easy informality, the enjoyment that everyone
concerned seemed to get out of the affair, one regrets that the professionals
of the present day have superseded the amateurs of this earlier period.
Pnj^he country neighbors and farmers recognition. He passed out a glass of spirits
were coming in. Inside the tavern automatically. "Coming, sir, coming!" he
a press of people seemed to bulge ^ried in despairing tones and plunged back
the very windows, and still others trickled j^^^ ^j^^ ^^^.^^ tap-room.
slowly in the door, clawing and elbowing n^i r i 11 t 1 »
/ ,, •11111 1 The hery rum brought heat to Johnny s
good-naturedly; trickled slowly out, smack- . ' , -n r 1 ' 1
,. , . . , T 1 t- • J spine, a look around still further warmed
ing lips, cracking jokes. Johnny hurried , . ' . 1 • 1 • 1 1 . r • n
1 ^ ^1 , .1 him. Here m high-pitched, comic, friendly
round to the pantry window. & r ? > 7
"Hornblower, a glass of spirits, for Gad's ^^^od the pick of the Provmce crowded
sake! I feel like I had a chill." in for fellowship and sport. They swarmed
Mr. Hornblower's distracted face shot in- the street and sidewalk, overflowed into
to view, stared at Johnny, almost without gardens, on doorsteps. Their carrioles and
179
i8o James
chaises lined the footpath, their horses were
tied to every tree.
They parted slowly as Sir Nat, perched
high on a yellow dogcart, drove up to the
tavern. His negro boy took the horse's
head. Sir Nat, holding whip and reins in
his right hand, climbed down. He laid the
whip across the seat; he looped the reins
through the terrets; he removed his tan
box-cloth coat witli the grave preoccupa-
tion of a Royal Post driver. The crowd
watched his careful ritual with good-na-
tured grins.
"How's Peregrine.?" they said.
"Fit."
"Huzzah! You've got to beat that
Virginia horse!"
"Right. Oh, there's Gerrould now."
The tall, grave Virginian came through
the crowd.
"Hullo, Gerrould. Missed you last night.
Comus fit.?"
"Ah, Dukinfield. My chaise broke down.
Yes, sir, my horse is ready to run. How is
Peregrine.?"
"Fit. Thanks."
Mr. Gerrould glanced about him im-
portantly and clasped Sir Nat's hand.
"Well, then, sir, may the best horse win!"
"Right," answered Sir Nat, overcome by
the somewhat theatrical tableau. "Bitters.?
No.? Well, then, let's get for'ard. You
know young Fraser.?"
"I think, sir, I recollect the pleasure."
"Come along, Bantam; should be at the
course."
Dubiously eyeing the dappled March sky,
Sir Nat put on his box-cloth coat, buttoned
the large mother-of-pearl buttons, took up
whip and reins and mounted. Taking the
seat beside him, Johnny focused every
faculty on the effort to appear at ease and
by no means elated.
Boyd
"Let go," said Sir Nat to the negro.
"Take care yourself!" He laid an accurate
lash along the bright flank. The dog-cart
shot ahead. The little negro made a white-
eyed dive for the tail-gate, hoisted himself
aboard, legs wildly dangling. All down the
street the crowd scattered and raised a
humorous cheer.
The tide of sportsmen was already setting
strong for the racecourse. They passed
knots of workmen trudging along, hand-
kerchiefs stuffed into stocks, smoking
stolid pipes, 'prentice lads who whistled
through their teeth and winked, pig-tailed
seamen, for the most part drunk and bel-
lowing. Farmers and small planters
bumped along on trace-marked plough-
horses. Barefoot negroes moved smoothly
single file, each with his ticket of leave
pinned to his breast; they pulled caps,
ducked heads, grinned. "Looky, nigger.
Heah come de golden chariot!" A deep-
toned giggle and a high "Hyah! hyah!"
ran down the line. A country chaise, mud-
spattered, bristled with home-made female
finery and bold untutored country glances.
Two gutter-snipes from town paddled
doggedly through the dust, dragging a
weeping sister and a reluctant cur. A straw-
filled farmer's wagon gave them a row of
ruddy, inarticulate grins.
Captain Tennant, rigid in a hired fly,
turned a furious eye on them as they
scraped his hub, recognized them, took
their dust with an almost benign salute.
"Good luck, young gentlemen!" they
heard him call.
"Good luck. Sir Nat!" said a couple of
back-country sportsmen on nervous, raw-
boned colts. "We're a-backin' you, boy!"
The foot people turned at the rattle of hubs,
nodded bonnets, raised cocked hats, sticks,
high-crowned buckled hats, and smiled.
Drums
i8i
"Good luck!" they called. "Good luck!
You're bound to win. North Carolina
wins! Huzzah!"
Ahead in a neat little trap with scarlet
wheels, Johnny saw Eve Tennant's new
green capucin beside the stout back of
Master Hal Cherry.
"Silly fat boy," said Sir Nat. "Give him
the go-by, what?" He cut in around them
dexterously.
"Confound you!" cried Master Hal, jerk-
ing the reins up under his chin. "Do you
know what you're about?"
"Yes. How do. Miss Eve?"
"Sir Nat! Johnny!" She smiled at them
and laughed at her escort's discomfiture.
Johnny raised his hat and grinned de-
lightedly. She had never seemed so charm-
ing and friendly. The fat boy had never
seemed so absurd. A sobering thought oc-
curred to him: girls were peculiar, they
would inveigle a man into taking them to
a party and then be the first to laugh if
someone made a monkey of him.
They overtook four handsomely dressed
young Virginians in a traveling carriage.
"Here comes a rather decent horse," re-
marked one loftily. Johnny's gorge rose.
"Hello, Virginia!" he shouted. "Is that
Comus?" He pointed to the fat old cob
between their shafts. "No, sir," they an-
swered, "but I reckon he'd win just as
easy."
"I reckon he'd stand as good a chance!"
He waved derisively.
Wylie Jones, lying back in his saffron-
panelled glass coach called to his monkey
nigger postillions and, with a wave of
tolerant amusement, allowed them to pass.
Now the race-course was in sight. The
first comers already outlined a long oval
on the greening pasture-lands.
They found Peregrine under a light blan-
ket in a clump of young pines. Sir Nat's
old negro, in a bright yellow waistcoat,
his Hessian boots freshly shined, waddled
distractedly to and fro, babbled conflicting
orders to three darky strappers.
"De hind leg, Amos, da's what Ah said.
Sassfrass, bring me de water-bucket. Wher'
de sponge? You yaller boy, chase off dem
chilluns!"
The yellow boy reluctantly approached a
ring of youngsters.
"Li'l' white boys, please to go on along.
De ho'se despise to be looked at."
"Good horse, Peregrine," said Sir Nat,
walking up.
Peregrine seemed not to hear. He
chucked his long fine head and kept an
apprehensive eye on the distant bustle and
confusion.
"Peregrine!"
Now his sharp ears tilted, his pointed
muzzle made a nervous thrust at Sir Nat's
pocket. Sir Nat brought out a tiny slice
of carrot. Peregrine's lips closed on it
swiftly, delicately. He turned away and
once more fixed his uneasy gaze on the
course.
"Nervous," said Sir Nat. "Don't bother
him. Amos, leave his leg." He unfastened
the halter shank and walked off, leading the
bright horse, softly whistling "Rum Pun-
cheon" in his ear. Johnny waited ; now and
again he could see the pair through the
trees and hear Sir Nat's soothing, endless
refrain. The three black strappers squatted
on the pine straw, solemn as apes.
"Ain't he de man now?" said the old
groom. "He des naturally rock dat ho'se
to sleep."
Just beyond, Johnny could see the tall
black figure of Mr. Gerrould and the scar-
let blanket of his Comus. As he walked
1 82 ]am€s
over, the white jockey stripped the blanket
and started to rub the chestnut quarters.
"Stand over, you Comus!" he shouted,
and struck him with the back of his hand.
Comus stood over quickly enough, but the
look in his eye was not agreeable.
"Ah, Mr. Fraser," said Mr. Gerrould.
^We are quite ready. You have not seen this
horse before.?**
"No, seh. He's a sure 'nough fine-looking
horse. I certainly like his looks," he added,
with the mental reservation that he would
like them better were Comus a little stronger
in the gaskins and a little more honest in
the eye.
Mr. Gerrould received his remark in com-
placent silence — there was nothing more to
be said. Johnny moved off toward the
race-course crowd, which now grew in a
steady stream and raised an ever-mounting
din to heaven. Carriages, wagons, carts and
chaises lined the homestretch. Horses
munched nose-bags at the hind wheels. The
crowd buzzed to and fro, formed jams,
broke up, flowed on again. Here two young
country boys, stripped to the waist, swnng
wildly at each other in a shouting circle.
Beyond, a man in a white box coat and a
white paper hat stood on a chair intoning,
"Five to three on Comus! Five to three on
Comus!" in a beery voice. Beside him a
pock-marked, ratty man sold tickets. Johnny
fell over a sailor sleeping soundly with his
hard leather hat clasped to his chest. He
stopped, stood wondering how he could get
him to his feet again. But the crowd, after
tripping over the sailor, seemed to accept
him as a feature of the local geography and
flowed around him on either side. Johnny
strolled on.
A dark foreigner in earrings and feath-
ered cap led a dingy bear. The man's wife
bent forward beneath a barrel organ, a
Boyd
bright silk handkerchief drawn down to her
tired eyes. On top of the barrel organ a
monkey shivered and cracked his knuckles.
Johnny followed them till they halted.
The barrel organ squeaked.
"Tilly-lilly-lon-ton!" the man intoned and
jerked the chain.
The bear rose up wearily, shufHed slowly,
lurched from side to side. His coat was
rubbed and rusty, his powerful forepaws
hung against his chest in a begging posture,
his eyes were tired like the woman's.
Those big paws, sturdy yet helpless, pulled
at Johnny's heart as, years before, the plead-
ing hands of the fisher-coon had pulled. He
turned away.
The first event, a farmer's race, was being
called. He went to the ropes where Wylie
Jones, the starter, was lining up the field.
Among the dozen half-bred colts he saw
the bound-boy from Slade's Ordinary, his
shirt sleeves rolled up to his shoulder,
astride a hammer-headed ancient blood
horse who stood motionless except for the
trembling of his battered knees.
"Go!" cried Wylie Jones, and dropped his
handkerchief. The bound-boy's nag got
away with the rest under a liberal fusillade
of blows. At die turn, however, Johnny saw
a cloud of dust, a rolling horse, and the seat
of the bound-boy's cowhide breeches sailing
through the air.
The morning passed with short races for
local horses. Impromptu matches, got up
to decide disputes, ended in single combats
or massed engagements between the parti-
sans. The constable in his silver chain and
badge marshalled his deputies and waited
with nice judgment for the moment when
it was prudent to intervene.
Toward two o'clock they fell to on their
dinners; saddle-bags and hampers were
spread on the grass, bottles and jugs passed
from hand to hand. Pastry boys in white
aprons sold tarts from shallow wooden
trays, a fat old free-nigger woman peddled
'lasses candy.
Johnny strolled slowly to and fro, ex-
hibiting himself and basking gratefully in
the blaze of his own magnificence. His
hands were clasped behind him, his eyes
were bent on the ground as though ab-
stracted, overwhelmed by weighty affairs.
He noted accurately, however, the respect-
ful glances of many a worthy burgher, and
not a few feminine glances which, though
not precisely respectful, were even more
gratifying. It was a long cry, indeed, from
the little back-country tadpole in mocca-
sins to the well-set-up and irreproachably
turned-out young gentleman who now pa-
raded the race-course for the edification of
the Province. Nor was his elegance specious
in the least degree. Its crowning glory lay
in the fact that it did no more than repre-
sent the actuality. He was received as friend
and familiar by the unassailable few whose
lofty position looked up to no man — ^by
Captain Tennant, by Wylie Jones and, espe-
cially gratifying on this day of the great
race, by Sir Nat.
At this point in his pleasing contempla-
tion of himself, his thoughts shot off
abruptly to Peregrine, walking lightly up
and down among the pines, cocking his ears
and waiting. A swift clutch of insupportable
excitement, of chill apprehension, closed
on his heart, the hour for the race was almost
here. He turned clammy, empty, almost
sick. If he did not do something his mind
would turn blank, or he would froth and
fall down in a fit.
He saw Eve perched on Master Cherry's
trap and wandered over.
"Why, sir!" she cried down to him, "you
look quite gloomy."
Drums 183
"Fact is, ma'am, I'm nervous about this
race.
"Isn't it exciting!" she said without con-
viction. "But Peregrine will win, won't
he?"
"I hope so," he answered listlessly. There
was no use trying to tell the things he
felt.
"Have some tucker?" Master Cherry
mumbled from the corner of a stuffed
mouth.
Johnny nibbled at a large fish sandwich
mechanically. The bread, the curry and the
shredded fish stuck miserably in his throat,
went down with hideous gulpings, lay sod-
den on his chest.
Captain Tennant came up, bristling with
excitement and indignation.
"Hello, young Fraser! Where's Sir Nat —
with the horse ? Good. We must beat these
Virginia chaps — by Jove, we must! One of
them just had the dashed impudence to
offer me five to two against Peregrine!"
"Yes, seh. Virginians certainly are over-
weening."
"Infernally overweening, sir. I told the
young man that I would take nothing but
even money and laid him fifteen guineas."
He puffed angrily. "Rather a large order
on my Collector's pay, but hang me, I
won't stand impudence."
At this moment a fat hand clasped
Johnny's, a second hand, covered with
rings, closed over it.
"Well, suh, young Master Fraser, and how
do we fine ou'selves today?"
Mr. Jenney, the pack-horse man, very
much frilled and wigged, without, however,
great attention either to good taste or
cleanliness, clung to Johnny's hand and
pressed it to his bosom. His bows included
Eve, Captain Tennant, and Master Cherry.
184 James
He had evidently forgotten the incident of
the fur tippet.
"Master Fraser," he explained to the com-
pany, "is the son of a ve'y dear frien' of
mine, the gallant and cultivated Mr. Fraser,
of Little River. Our relationship is pe-
culiarly close, Mrs. Fraser being a Moore,
of Wilmington, and my late wife"— he
raised his eyes to heaven — "deceased March
9, 1764, having been a ToUifer and related
tlirough the Desaussures to the Moores."
"Did Mr. Arrocks come with you V asked
Johnny hurriedly.
"There he stands," said Mr. Jenney, point-
ing into the crowd, "the salt of the earth,
the positive salt of the earth.'*
Johnny led Mr. Jenney away to where
the grim face of Mr. Arrocks cast its satur-
nine eye on the throngs below. Mr. Arrocks
tilted his long beak vertically as a saluta-
tion, then tilted it horizontally with a
meaning glance to indicate that he desired
a private interview. Disengaging his hand
from Mr. Jenney's, Johnny stepped aside.
"Who's to ride Dukinfield's horse.?" he
said in a hoarse stage whisper.
"Mr. Heywood, of Black River."
Mr. Arrocks shook his head lugubriously.
In pantomime he poured out a monumen-
tal drink, drank it and simulated stupor.
He shook his head again and walked away.
So Mr. Heywood, then, had got drunk
the night before the race? He hurried to
Sir Nat with the news.
"Nat, has Mr. Heywood come?"
Sir Nat shifted the straw in his mouth.
"Yes," he replied without enthusiasm.
"Is he all right?"
"Seedy. Have to do, though. Too late
now — " He bit the straw in two and turned
to his horse.
"I just saw a fellow I knew; he told me
he'd drunk himself stiff last night."
Boyd
"Yes, yes, I know," Sir Nat shook his
head — "too late now."
Johnny strode moodily up and down be-
fore the little group who had gathered to
watch Peregrine saddled. He bowed his
head, the picture of a high-minded sports-
man deploring the less admirable qualities
of others. And indeed, beneath this panto-
mime, he was truly outraged. To be picked
to ride Peregrine and then get drunk the
night before — such sacrilege would bring
a judgment from God.
An expectant hush had fallen on the race
crowd, their restless movement ceased; they
lined up at the track.
Looking quite alert and fit, Heywood
appeared on the other side of Peregrine. He
took a pull at the girths, stripped off his
coat, gave Sir Nat his thin-lipped grin
across the saddle.
"Never fear, Nat, I'll bring him home
first!" His speech was hearty, confident,
but Johnny noticed that his face, around
the sharp mouth, was gray.
"Listen!" said Sir Nat. "Should win the
first heat. But the second and third heats — "
He whispered to him.
Heywood pulled back the sleeves of his
yellow silk jacket and nodded impatiently.
"Here, nigger, a leg up!" The rug was
slipped off Peregrine's loins and Heywood
vaulted into the light racing saddle. "Nig-
ger, hold my iron— not that way, damn
you!" He got his feet home in the stirrups,
took a light feel of the reins; horse and
rider moved off quietly for the starting-post.
Sir Nat trudged alongside, softly whistling.
Already the scarlet jacket of Mr. Gerrould's
jockey could be seen above the heads of
the crowd.
Forgetful now of dignity,, of earthly
pomp and vanity, Johnny trotted behind
Peregrine's bay quarters with the three
strappers and the old groom. The crowd
gave way, closed in behind. They were at
the post. It seemed impossible that the event
had arrived. He was fighting through the
crowd — he would be too late. He heard
an angry voice, "What in the nation!" And
another, "Let him through. It's Sir Nat's
friend." Then he was on the ropes. He saw
a strange gentleman standing with a raised
flag; he saw Comus lay back an ear, whirl,
come up to the line; he saw Peregrine,
steady enough and ready except for a hint
of unfathomed apprehension in his eye.
The flag went down with a shout of
"Go!" They broke away in a scurry,
straightened out side by side down the roar-
ing lane. They disappeared around the turn;
the roar of the crowd sank to a busy mur-
mur. Standing on tiptoe, Johnny could just
see the scarlet jacket and the yellov/ moving
above the packed heads. Side by side they
glided along, like two small colored disks
drawn on strings. At the end of the back
stretch they vanished.
Now they were coming. A cheer ran
down the line with the beat of their hoofs.
They passed by, shoulder to shoulder, both
horses settled into the long, steady gallop
of the four-mile test.
The rest seemed like a dream to Johnny.
Horses and riders now glided, two spots
in the distance, now drummed past in a
shower of turf clods. He heard the people
shouting, "Last mile! Peregrine! Go it.
Peregrine! Last mile!" He must see! He
must see!
He was backing furiously through the
press of bodies, he was frantically climbing
an over-loaded chaise. A hand reached down
and hoisted him.
The two horses, on the back stretch,
were level just the same. But as they reached
the turn a scarlet arm rose and fell. The
Drums 185
chestnut horse jumped forward, made his
drive for home. The crowd gave a whis-
pered groan. Then Peregrine strode out as
well; he rounded into the stretch with his
head along the other's saddle-girth. Johnny
saw the bay ears flash forward, the bay
neck stretch out. He knew the meaning. The
horse was going to make his dash. Sit still,
Heywood, sit still! But just then Hey-
wood's whip swung fiercely back, Peregrine
swerved, checked his stride, lost half a
length, a length, came forward under the
whip, made a desperate run, passed the
judges a head and neck behind.
Johnny fumbled for his handkerchief. He
was going to cry. The beautiful bay horse
whom he had ridden so often, the rogueish,
gallant horse, who knew just when and how
to gather himself for one of his tremendous
bursts, was beaten. He blew his nose. Be-
low him a little knot of Virginia supporters
were throwing their hats aloft and cheer-
ing in the heart of the silent throng. The
arm which held him to the hub of the chaise
tightened. Mr. Teague Battle stared at the
huzzaing young bloods.
"I'd give my hide," he said, "to send those
young scoundrels home with their tails be-
tween their legs."
Here came Peregrine under his sheet, his
sweat-blackened neck hanging low. Sir Nat
beside him, pale and troubled, was casting
anxious glances around.
"Bantam," he said in a low voice, "come
down!"
They walked silently back to the clump
of pines. Silently the crowd gave \vay for
them.
They watched the poor old groom spong-
ing out Peregrine's nostrils, and crying
distractedly into the water bucket.
"Heywood," Sir Nat said gravely, "won't
do."
i86 James
"I know, Nat," Johnny mumbled, "but
thcy's no one else. If only you were light
enough. Tell him not to use the whip. O
my, O my! The horse was all fixed to run."
Sir Nat withdrew a pine needle from his
mouth — "You ride."
The world turned slowly upside down,
burst into a million fragments which show-
ered on Johnny's head.
"What!" he heard himself say.
"Boy, bring me those boots. Bantam, sit
down."
''But, Nat, I've never ridden a race."
"Know horse — horse knows you. Sit still
— that's all — speak to him."
Sir Nat was tugging the boots on Johnny's
trembling legs and puffing.
Heywood came up, a plaster of mud
across his lean jaw.
"Heywood, give Bantam your jacket."
"What!"
"Put this boy up — only chance."
He^^wood stripped his jacket and threw
it on the ground. "God's teeth!" he said.
"You don't expect me to make a good horse
out of a bad one, do you.^^" He walked
away.
Now the jacket was on over Johnny's
rufHed shirt, now he was hoisted, numb
and powerless, into the saddle. By Zooks!
He couldn't do it!
But with the familiar feel of the horse
between his knees the strength flowed back
in him. He took up on the reins. Sir Nat's
light hand closed on his thigh.
"Good chap!" he said. "Sit still — speak to
him."
He was at the starting post. He heard the
crowd's murmur of surprise. A voice cried,
"Ride him, youngster!" "Ride him — ^ride
him!" they roared.
The flag went down — he closed his knees
and shot away. As the ranks of faces and
Boyd
waving hats flew past, his heart rose up
inside him. He took a breath. "Good horse!"
he whispered.
Now they were galloping, galloping
through the empty back stretch, through
the thundering lane, and he was riding,
riding, sitting steady in the saddle, keeping
an even feeling on the bit. Back stretch and
lane, back stretch and lane wheeled by in
dizzy procession.
He heard the cry, "Last mile!" The jockey
beside him touched the chestnut horse.
Comus quickened stride and drew away —
half a length, a length, then two. "Ride
him! Ride him!" the crowd implored. He
chewed on his tongue, sat still.
He trailed the other around the back
stretch, squinting his eyes against the flying
sods. At the turn the jockey grinned back
at him over his shoulder. Above the tumult
he heard Sir Nat's voice, "Now!"
He closed his legs, leaned forward for
the coming shock. But the bay horse hung
back, thinking of the whip. "Peregrine!"
he called. "Peregrine!"
An ear twirled, the reins pulled sharply
tight, Peregrine reached for his bit. The
crowd shot past in a gray mist; the scarlet
jacket was coming back to him. He saw it
whipping. "Now sit steady!" he muttered.
As they rounded into the homestretch,
the saddle beneath him again thrust for-
ward. By Zooks, he didn't know there was
such speed!
In one tremendous instant the chestnut
horse fell rapidly behind him. He finished
going away.
At the first pull Peregrine came in to him
and stopped. The crowd was running down
the track, swarming around him. Hats,
sticks, greatcoats were in the air. "That's
a-ridin', boy! That's a-ridin'!" "Do it again
now, son!" "Carolina wins!"
Sir Nat fought through the press. Johnny
slipped off weakly into his arms. A hun-
dred hands shook his, reached for him,
patted him as they made their way back
to the little clump of trees.
"Listen, Bantam!" Sir Nat jerked a thumb
toward Comus. "Won't be beat so easy
next time. Start racin' third mile, or you
won't see him again." He gazed at Pere-
grine's heaving flanks. "Hold him together,"
he said; "tired."
Again in the mist and tumult of a dream,
Johnny was off the score beside the chest-
nut. He hugged the rail and waited, sick
and anxious, for Peregrine now was not
galloping so strong. They made two rounds
together, the other horse just a neck and
head behind. Then from the corner of his
eye he saw the jockey raise his whip. He
closed his legs and drew away.
He was galloping into the fourth mile
now amid the shrieks of Bedlam. "Caro-
lina! Carolina! Peregrine!" The cursed
fools! Couldn't they see the horse was
fading fast, his head nodding, his weight
all on the bit?
On the next turn he heard the whip be-
hind; the chestnut muzzle crept up to his
knee. He shoved his horse along as fast as
he dared, but again the whip came down;
the chestnut muzzle stayed there.
Cursing and whipping like a madman,
the scarlet jockey drew up on the turn,
hung knee to knee, passed him by. A hun-
dred yards to go and no more running in
Drums 187
his beaten horse, though the chestnut was
just ahead and, whip as the rider might,
could not draw away. Johnny took up on
the reins. "Go it, good horse!" he shouted
thickly. He closed his numb legs; the
horse's head came up; he felt his hocks
come under; with a last uncertain burst,
he drew up to the chestnut, fell back,
crawled up, hung forever, it seemed, in a
black roaring cavern, then edged an inch
ahead.
Peregrine pulled up, stumbling; stood
there, legs outspread, muzzle hanging low.
Johnny leaned forward and laid his face
on the drooping neck. Then the crowd was
on them. He was pulled from the saddle,
he was rocking aloft on a dozen shoulders.
A thousand faces turned up to him, shouted.
Men danced, leaped, threw arms about
each other, reached up frantic hands. Sir
Nat's pink face was rocking above the crowd
as well. They drifted slowly together, were
hoisted together to the seat of a chaise.
The people cheered and cheered again, then
fell silent. "Speech! Speech!" they cried. Sir
Nat, quite crimson, cleared his throat,
touched Johnny's shoulder.
"Good chap!"
"Huzzah!" they howled.
He pointed a stubby finger to where the
old groom, laughing, crying, stumbling over
his Hessian boots, was leading Peregrine
away.
"Good horse!" he said.
ROBERT FROST
The Runaway
from COLLECTED POEMS
This poem is almost the only thing to be found on the Morgan horse, and
one of the very few poems about the horse in freedom. Written for chil-
dren, the adult reader sees in it his own childhood's desire to brea\ the
home ties a?id explore distant horizons.
Once, when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,
We stopped by a mountain pasture to say, "Whose colt?"
A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall.
The other curled at his breast. He dipped his head
And snorted at us. And then he had to bolt.
We heard the miniature thunder where he fled,
And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and gray,
Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.
"I think the little fellow's afraid of the snow.
He isn't winter-broken. It isn't play
With the little fellow at all. He's running away.
I doubt if even his mother could tell him, *Sakes,
It's only weather.' He'd think she didn't know.
Where is his mother? He can't be out alone.'*
And now he comes again with a clatter of stone
And mounts the wall again with whited eyes
And all his tail that isn't hair up straight.
He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.
"Whoever it is that leaves him out so late,
When other creatures have gone to stall and bin>
Ought to be told to come and take him in."
isa
DOROTHEA DONN BYRNE (contemporary)
The Turn of the Wheel
Here is a beautifully written story about a side of Irish life which is very
real, its poverty, Mrs, Donn Byrne, as does her husband, writes of the
gypsies and their way with horses.
orn in open field on a grim March
day, the world seemed a cold and
bitter place to him. The old, gray
wintry grass was hard to his little' feet.
The sea pounded against the wall and
threw jets of icy spray over him and his
mother, who was too tired and too dazed
with the bearing of him — ^for he was a huge,
sturdy colt, — to seek shelter for herself and
her son. She stood there, her sides heaving,
lip hanging, rain, sweat and sea water in
her coat, and round her stumbled the new-
born colt, irritable and insatiate.
Oh, he was so cold, the little fellow, and
his mother so unsatisfactory. He had just
managed to stagger to his feet. The world
was gaunt, and bare, and wide. Little, slant-
ing needles of rain pricked him. The big
gray sea tried to climb at him over the
field wall. He was afraid of all the ugly,
sad noises about him. He whimpered and
squeezed himself against his mother's legs,
and she began to take pity on him, licking
him and sheltering him with her body as
best she could. Now and then, she turned
anxiously to where the towers of Coolveen
jutted out of the fog, and sent out a call
for help.
While all this was going on in the nine-
acre field by the sea, Captain the Honor-
able Desmond O'Deasy was sitting in an
incredibly dirty, dusty oflSce in Ballyrack
town, trying to arrive at some amenable
understanding with his creditors. Hard go-
ing he was finding it, for what they wanted
was spot cash, and what he wanted was
time. He hadn't the cash nor they, appar-
ently, the time. Not that time would have
done him much good, for the Honorable
O'Deasy was flat broke, and mouths that
he had fed many's the time when their
owners were children, were set in thin, hard
lines against him. That is, when they
weren't opened in curses and threats.
He had left the castle at seven o'clock
that morning, driving his team of white
Arab ponies — the only valuable possession
left to him — hitched to a light American
buggy.
"Well, Minnie," he said to his old house-
keeper, as she handed him a rose for his
buttonhole and he set his tweed hat with a
189
190 Dorothea
jaunty twitch to one side, "I'm off to have
a rap at Fortune gate."
"Let you give it a kick for me, your
honor," repHed Minnie.
The boy handed him the reins and care-
fully wrapped the rug about his knees and,
widi a gay flick of the whip, he was off. A
grand turnout, gentleman and horses,
thought Minnie Murphy as she watched that
straight back and the twinkling wheels
disappear down the daffodil-fringed ave-
nue. "A grand sight surely," she said to
herself, and then, sighing, "Sure it's a mur-
dering shame." However, there was work
to be done, and because she was sick and
sore at heart, she hustled Bat and the stable
boys like a slave driver, slashing and bang-
ing at everything, beating the worn carpets
to a froth of dust, and stopping to let it
settle again w^hile she told her minions what
she thought of them.
It was nearly luncheon time when she
heard the sound of galloping horses and
saw the white team come tearing back
up the avenue, her master standing up in
the buggy, cracking his whip like a mad-
man and shouting them on. Round by the
front entrance he swerved, circling round
the back way to the stable yard and, close
on his heels, Minnie spied the red wheels
of a jaunting car.
"We're destroyed!" said Minnie. "Quick,
for your life, Bat! The stable gates!"
And just as the ponies clattered onto the
cobblestones of the yard, the big wooden
gates clashed to, and the heavy wooden
crossbeam fell, shutting out the fastest side
car in Ballyrack, while two officers of the
law clamored and scratched outside, waving
red-sealed documents and shouting venge-
ance.
"That'll hold them," said Minnie, with
a grin "Are you dead, your honor .^"
"Pretty near," said the captain, climbing
Donn Byrne
down and throwing the reins to the waiting
boy. "Just got to ground in time. They'll
get the ponies yet, Minnie."
"Divil a get, your honor. Hell's cure to
them! May they never — "
"Never mind, Minnie. Have you a kettle
boiling ? I could do with a cup of tea
You there, Bat; walk those ponies round a
bit."
He followed Minnie into her cottage,
where she busied herself with kettle and
teapot, muttering to herself as she slashed
at the big loaf of Bastable bread, digging
at it as if at the throat of her enemies:
"Coursed him like a hare, they did — ^him
that reared and supported them!"
Desmond O'Deasy sat down heavily on
the settle by the turf fire and sipped the
black, rancid tea gratefully. Nine miles
the bailiffs had chased him, but now that he
was inside his own gates he was safe for
the moment. They had ambushed him on
the high road. Out of a boreen the side
car had come rattling, while the big, fright-
ened horse had nearly crashed into his turn-
out. It was no use stopping to argue. He had
proved the futility of that in his three hours
in Ballyrack. So he shook up his reins and
ran like hell for cover.
"I doubt but we'll have to keep the ponies
in the dairy after this, Minnie," he said.
"I'll take them two into the kitchen here
with pleasure. Sure 'tis clean as Christians
they are, and far pleasanter companions. Let
you not worry, my poor gentleman, but
drink your tea. We'll find ways to circum-
vage them."
"I wonder if it would occur to Riordan
and the other to go down to the nine acre,"
said Desmond. "What have we got in the
field, Minnie?"
"Sure nothing but the old cow that's as
dry as a weasel, and Kitty, just on her time.
They'd never be bothered with that one."
The Turn
"My God ! I forgot the poor old girl with
all the trouble Tve had today. Has anyone
been down to look at her?"
"Not one moment have I had since day-
break, your honor, what with those dirty
whelps of servants walking out and leaving
the castle in the state it's in."
"Never mind that now. Go round by the
garden and, if those fellows have gone, take
a look at the mare."
"They're away all right, sir," broke in
Bat. "You never heard such language down
the avenue."
"Get on with Minnie, then."
Left alone, he slumped on the settle and
buried his face in his hands. He was a fine
figure of a man, aged before his time with
the nagging worry. When his father had
died, Desmond left the swagger cavalry
regiment to which he belonged, and brought
his motherless son home with him to carry
on the old place. He was full of enthusiasm
and ne^ ideas, thinking modern methods
would bring back former grandeurs. But
his enthusiasm and his ideals had crashed
on the rock of Irish apathy, and his plans
had failed. He wasn't the man to fight the
growing depression, the lowered standard
of the landlord, the laws that were well
enough in the country where they were
made, but useless applied to the mentality
of his countrymen. However, he had man-
aged to keep Shane, his boy, at a decent
school and get him into his own regiment,
but now he was all alone at Coolveen, and
the circle had nearly closed about him. The
mare, Kitty, belonged to Shane, who had
spent his twenty-first birthday money send-
ing her to the best stallion in the south. His
father had tried to stop him, suggesting it
would be kinder to shoot the old lady than
start breeding her at her time of life.
"She won't let us down," Shane replied.
"She has grand blood in her, and will give
of the Wheel 191
us a foal that will change all our fortunes,
you'll see."
"Well, it's your money, Shane, my lad. I
would like to see a young one of Kitty's
about the place."
The boy had gone off to India with his
regiment and things had gone from bad
to worse that year. "Why," thought Des-
mond, "Did I ever stay in this cruel-hearted
country and try to make a go of it ? I could
be sitting blinking at the sun on the Riviera
with the rest of the old fogies, with never
a care in the world, save a few francs
dropped at baccarat or trente et quarante.
Not that I could have stood that life long.
. . . It's funny how hard people's faces seem
when you have no money. It's funny how
they have that look as if a veil came down
over their eyes. Even those from whom yoii
are expecting nothing. Gad, it's a bloody
world, all right!"
" 'Tis there, your honor!" Minnie came
panting back. "'Tis there!"
"What's there, woman .^ More trouble?"
"The grandest young foaleen, a coult.
I'm thinking, though, it's killed the old
mare. She looks terrible poor in herself."
"Shut up, and get a big pot of water on
the fire. I'll murder Riordan and his lot, if
we lose Kitty."
Down the nine-acre field they scurried —
Desmond, Minnie, the boys — and dogs
barking round them. Kitty saw them com-
ing and roused herself. She threw up her
head and gave what sounded very like a
cheer, as if to say she had done her best
Minnie busied herself about the foal, with
murmurs and grunts of delight, but Des-
mond O'Deasy threw his arms around the
old mare's neck.
" 'Tis lovely, Kitty dear," he said. " 'Tis
beautiful! The finest ever! Well played, old
sweetheart."
Old Kitty recovered, and rejoiced in her
192 Dorothea
fine young son. He was an ugly chap, im-
mensely powerful, but gangly and long-
backed; a dark bay in color, with a white-
splashed face and one white forefoot. The
sort of horse that might be anything or
nothing. He grew to an enormous size. The
farmers and serving men who played cards
of a Sunday afternoon in the corner of the
nine acre used to shake their heads over
him.
" 'Tisn't for beauty Mr. Shane will get
his price for him. 'Tis due for the baker's
cart that one will be, I'm thinking," they
said. But his mother thought he was beau-
tiful, and for two happy years she took
her ease in the field by the sea, and gam-
boled, and carried on like a colt herself.
Whatever was lacking in the castle larder,
there was nothing lacking for this pair.
Warm milk and white oats and sweet hay
the winter long, a good bed at night, and
divil a care in the world.
Then, one fine spring morning when
the sea was at its bluest and the birds were
singing so that you couldn't hear your
ears, old Kitty lay down in the daisy-
sprinkled grass and got up no more.
Strangely enough, this happened at the
same hour and moment when Minnie Mur-
phy, with her apron over her head and her
eyes worn with crying, was pulling down
the blinds in Desmond O'Deasy's bedroom
and shutting out the gay and pleasant sun-
shine that has nothing to do with those
who have gone away for good.
Andiamo, the colt, finding his mother did
not get up, tried kicking her gently, but
nothing happened. Frightened, he put his
head in the air and ran screaming round
the field. He leaped the sea wall and, land-
ing on the hard sand of the beach, galloped
away like a mad thing. It was then that
Michael Riordan, who was picnicking on
Donn Byrne
the beach with his wife and children — ^for
even bailiffs have these human appurte-
nances — saw him.
"Be the hokey, will you look at that one V^
said Riordan. "The ugly schamer, he has
the divil in his heels."
The auction at Coolveen was in full
swing. Strawfilled, manure-scented brogues,
cheap, high-heeled paper shoes of towns-
folk, stout buttoned boots of farm wives,
dirty bare feet of little children, traniped
in and out of the great oaken doors and
narrow French windows, pushing aside the
fragile tapestries, crushing the forget-me-
nots and tulips in the terrace garden. Whis-
perings, exclamations, curiosity — curiosity
because here was the break-up of a great
house; because feet like these never got be-
yond the kitchen door of such places save
on days like the present one — days of reck-
oning.
Shane O'Deasy, the heir, was away in
India with his regiment and he had in-
structed everything to be sold and cleared
away on his father's death. The sole relics
of old times were Bat, the stable boy, and
poor Minnie, overcome with grief and gran-
deur in her heavy mourning, and full of
contempt for what she called "the scruff
of Ballyrack."
There was pitifully little to sell. A few
bits of old silver, of Waterford glass, fragile,
mended furniture, polo sticks and fishing
rods, regimental photographs and trophies.
Doherty, the auctioneer, was soon finished
with the house, and led his following to
the stable yard, where broken farm imple-
ments, carts, ancient harness and saddlery
were heaped in confusion. A solitary cow,
a couple of lugubrious donkeys and goats
were huddled in one corner. Hens ran
squawking under everybody's feet. Pigeons
cooed from the lofts and overhead, the rooks
The Turn
made noisy disturbance. In the center was
a small cinder track where Bat, the stable
boy, was carefully leading Andiamo around.
The colt was fractious, and aimed out kicks
right and left.
The auctioneer planted his overturned
barrel in front of Minnie's cottage.
"Here you boy!" he called. "Shove that
horse in the stable before he kicks the
daylights out of somebody Well, now,
ladies and gentlemen, we have here — " And
he paused and peered round the yard over
his specs. "What the hell have we here any-
how?" The crowd laughed. "Order, order,
ladies and gents, please!" — and he thumped
with his mallet on the barrel top. "As I was
going to say, we have here the contents of
this valuable stable." More jeers from the
crowd. "Now, now, no nonsense, please
Shove out those animals there boy, and
come on, somebody; make me an offer.
Who wants a brace of thoroughbred goats ?
Who'll give me a pound for the goats?"
The animals were clouted forward by
Bat and the small boys. Everything was
sold quickly, and a few shillings changed
hands.
" 'Tis wonderful how the quality man-
ages to live when they comes down in the
world," murmured the red-faced Mrs.
Riordan to Minnie.
"They don't live, Mrs. Riordan, ma'am,
they dies," said Minnie, and turned her
back.
"Shove out that horse now. Bat Mar-
tin!" shouted the auctioneer. "We don't
want to spend the night here. Now then,
we come to the big event of the day, and
the last, thank God! Run your eyes over
that fellow. Have any of you ever seen a
horse before ? If you admit it, I don't need
to tell you what this one is worth. Wait
now till I read you the breeding Walk
of the Wheel i(j^
him round boy." He consulted some dirty
bits of paper before him: "This animal is a
bay gelding, two years old, by that grand
race horse, Impatient, out of Flying Kitty,
by Gull Flight out of Kathleen Na Houli-
han, by — and now listen well, my masters —
by Ascetic — You all know that blood. If
you don't, you bloody well ought to
Hold on, don't laugh! I'm tellin' you the
truth. This colt is well bred enough to beat
the world, and Mr. Shane Desmond paid
ninety-eight golden guineas for the fee to
get him."
"Owed ninety-eight guineas, more likely,"
muttered Riordan, the bailifif.
"And what the hell does it matter to
the horse whether it was paid or owed?
I'll thank you not to interrupt me, Michael
Riordan. Now, this colt is just the cut of a
grand gentleman's hunter, like his mother,
or the winner of valuable races, like his
father before him. Make me an offer, you
dealing men there. Make me an offer that
will show you know your business."
"Ten pound," said a farmer.
"Eleven is my bid," said Riordan.
"Twelve!" came from the other side.
Doherty stuck out his chin and shouted
at them: "Do you want to drive me mad,
you pack of fools ? Amn't I telling you that
here's a piece of property worth money?"
"Yerra, Mr. Doherty, my dearie," broke
in the farmer. "Have you taken a look at
the horse? 'Tis a poor ungainly specimen,
at best."
"I don't want to look at him. I am look-
ing at this paper before my eyes. Here, I'll
read it all out to you again."
Riordan shoved forward. "I'll give fifteen
pounds down for the colt, and I'll bet you
ten shillings you can't better die offer."
Sizing up the apathy of the crowd and
burning with die thirst of a poor day's
194 Dorothea
work, Doherty, the auctioneer, knocked
down Andiamo to Riordan for fifteen
pounds. "And Tm a hard-hearted man, as
behooves my trade," he said, "but Fm glad
the captain isn't ahve to see a dirty deal like
this."
He got down and tramped oil in dis-
crust. Andiamo was hitched to the back of
Riordan's trap and dragged reluctantly out
of the gates. Heavy boots clattered after
him. Voices and faces faded away. The
yard was empty, save for a ragged sheep
dog and an old woman sitting on a stone
bench outside her door where the early
June roses nodded.
"Old Doherty was right," she mused to
herself. " 'Tis the mercy of God, himself
never lived to see the day ! . . . Are you there,
Bat.^" she called into the stable. "Let you
put the kettle on. We'll be needing a wee
cup of tea."
"Get in there, blast you!" said Riordan,
as he pushed the colt into the blackness
of a cow shed in his dingy town yard.
Andiamo stood trembling. He heard all
sorts of noises. There were pigs next door
to him. He hated their smell and their
squealing. There was a dog tied up on a
chain that whimpered continually. He
snuffed round, finding nothing but dirty,
clammy straw. What light there was filtered
through the crumbling walls. He crashed
back suddenly as a rat ran over his foreleg.
And then, thoroughly wrought up with the
day's happenings, he began to walk round
and round the narrow circle of the shed,
shaking his head up and down.
Andiamo was developing a personality.
He was out in the world on his own now.
The happy days with his mother were gone.
The husky, whispering voice of Bat was
gone, and the wheedlings of Minnie; his
Donn Byrne
home, his warm stable and his field. He
hated Riordan with the sudden dislike
horses take to a man and his hands. But he
was a bit afraid. Riordan had clouted him
over the head on that long, racking journey
to town.
"Let you not hit the horse in the face,
Michael," said Mrs. Riordan. "Do you want
to destroy him?"
"Sweet bad luck to him! I hate every
living thing, every blade of grass out of
that place. They that were so grand, they
shut the door in my nose and made a mock
of me. The old trickster that shot two valu-
able ponies with his own hand rather than
let them go just and proper to an officer
of the law."
"Ah, sure, that's all forbye, Michael.
You're only spiting yourself."
"Mind your own business, woman," he
said, and drove on sullenly.
At the pub that evening he was full of
swank and bluster, standing drinks all
round to the farmers and dealers and small
townfolk. They drank his liquor because
they were thirsty, and they heard him out
because they were polite, but no man liked
him, and there was scarcely one of them
that hadn't a private score of his own
against him.
" 'Tis true you think you have a winner
bought, Mr. R.?" questioned Jerry, the bar-
man. "They tell me the coult's a terrible
poor animal."
"What would you expect from the star-
vation rations at Coolveen.f^" sneered Rior-
dan.
" 'Twas always held, now," went on
Jerry, "that the captain would go hungry
himself before he'd let his animals want.
I'm thinking the young gentleman in for-
eign parts will be sorry after the horse. He
set great store by the old mare."
The Turn of
"If I hadn't bought the horse, I'd have
took him soon enough in the name of the
law."
"Bigad, the law has a capacious trapplc,"
murmured an old horse dealer.
" 'Tis a dirty lot of snobs you all are,"
said Riordan. "No talk but the sweet cap-
tain here, and the sweet captain there. Han-
kering after an old down-and-out that owed
every one of you money, because he was a
gentleman and lived in style. Style my
elbow! A place like a pigsty."
He stumbled home in the darkness. Out-
side the shed where Andiamo was stabled,
he stopped and shook his fist.
"You'll be a good one all right before I'm
through with you, or you'll be hounds'
meat." He could hear the horse walking
about, his hoofs kicking at the walls.
"Lie down, you — " he yelled, but the
tramping and kicking went on.
"I'll give you a lesson this minute will
last you — " Snatching up a pitchfork, he
threw open the door of the cow shed. The
red lamps of the horse's eyes showed in
the far corner a second; then, terrified by
Riordan's stumbling figure and raised arm,
he sprang forward. He rose on his hind
legs and boxed at the man, missing him.
Riordan slashed at his head with the fork,
but Andiamo scattered him like a suit of
clothes from a line, and was free. He dashed
through the yard gate into Ballyrack High
Street, which was empty, save for the old
night watchman, who was putting out the
gas lamps. This one, seeing a maddened,
snorting horse coming at him, downed tools
and, calling on the saints, fled up an alley.
Andiamo was soon out of town and away
into die fields. Cool and wet with night
dew, these were grateful to his unshod
feet. He stopped to crop a bit of grass and
snuff the air. There was no salty sea smell
the Wheel 195
as at home, but he was well content with
his freedom, and started ofT cross country
at an easy lollop. Low hedges and banks
he went over as easily as a grayhound.
The small, loose stone walls he took in his
stride, and, when he came across something
too high for him, he ran up and down look-
ing for a gap or a gate. There was grand
"lepping" blood in the colt, and this first
hunt of his without quarry or hounds or
red-coated passenger, was perhaps the best
of his life.
Through the short Irish summer night he
cantered, keeping instinctively to the fields,
till, with the first sign of dawn, he came to
a boreen, where he pulled up with a snort,
scenting fire. A curl of smoke was strag-
gling up from the little pile of turf where
a gang of traveling tinkers had pitched
their camp for the night.
Now, tinkers are the Irish of?shoot of the
gypsy family, and roam the countryside,
living the life of the tent and tilted cart
all through the spring and summer. Like
the ground hog's shadow in America, the
first tinker rattling along the roads of Ire-
land with his women and children and
assortment of animals is the signal that
spring is afoot. They have their clans and
their signs and tokens, as the high-class
gypsies have even a language of tlieir own
called Shelta, which is probably very old
and very erudite. They twist it to their
fancy, but their ordinary speech is the com-
mon brogue of their district. A merry, rak-
ish people they are, dark-skinned and
foreign-looking, flaming red of hair, with
keen blue eyes. Clever as wild animals, the
enemies of all respectable house dwellers,
they have a certain dignity and a definite
code.
As judges of horseflesh diey are hard to
beat, and make their living trading horses
196 Dorothea
or ''finding" tliem before the owner has
lost them. As a side line, they mend pots
and pans, make furniture or fishing rods,
and beg loudly and plausibly.
Into the encampment Andiamo wan-
dered carefully. There were a couple of
gayly painted living vans, two or three tents,
red carts tilted against the hawthorn hedge
— gay, colorful litter. There was no stirring
of human life, but goats, hens, donkeys and
at least a dozen horses of every age and
color were browsing along the land. These
eyed Andiamo distrustfully, but one old
mare, patched white and brown like a cir-
cus horse, spying him, lifted her head and
long upper lip, showing broken yellow
teeth. Andiamo whinnied very low, and she
answered him. He came nearer, where-
upon she planted both hoofs in his ribs. He
took no offense at this, knowing the ways
of old mares, but sidled up again. Recog-
nizing from his manner that he was only
a poor, foolish youngster, she made room
for him at the luscious bit of hedgerow she
was engaged on, and soon they were crop-
ping side by side.
The sun rose higher, and from the larg-
est tent there stepped a grandiose figure of
a man. He wore a gray whipcord coat
buttoned tight up to his neck, and very
heavy trousers. His head flamed up like a
smaller version of the sun. His feet were
bare. Making his way to a water-cress-filled
stream, he ducked his head into it rapidly,
twice; then shook himself like a dog. His
toilet over for the day, he ran an eye over
the animals, and spied Andiamo.
"Woman!" he called. "Come out!"
The tent door flapped and a female coun-
terpart of himself stuck her ragged head
out.
"Tell me," said her husband. "Am I
drunk?"
Donn Byrne
"How might that be and yourself stone
poor?" she replied.
"Take a look at what's by the hedge
there."
She stood beside him, arms akimbo, hand-
some, dirty, live as a steel wire.
''Dawdi! [Behold.] 'Tis a blood colt!"
" 'Tis a gift, woman, from the gentiles, or
the little people, maybe."
''Awalir [Verily.] She nodded. "'Tis a
gift anyhow."
The man ran his brown hand over Andi-
amo, whispering all the time in a low,
tuneful way. The colt shivered slightly, but
was quiet under the hand. By this time, the
other tinkers had stumbled out of their
tents, or from behind the ditch where they
had been sleeping, and stood around in a
distant, respectful circle.
"Woman," said Feodor Mackay, the big
tinker, straightening himself, "how so or
why, I cannot yet say, but we are rich! Get
the food ready, but first bring me the clip-
pers and a pot of brown color. Away the
rest of you and prepare. We move in an
hour."
Within the hour Andiamo was trans-
formed. He was a rich brown shade, with
no white about him but a small star on his
forehead and a bleached streak in his long
tail. His mane was hogged, and as quickly
as the sun dried him, the tinker rubbed
dirt and leaf mold into his coat. The camp
broke up. Horses were whipped to a trot.
Goats, dogs, children and donkeys fell in
line.
Andiamo moved happily beside the old
mare and, with much joking and whip
cracking, they jogged off toward the County
of Kerry.
It wasn't till the next day that the law
caught up with them. Seeing a motor car
draw up by the roadside, Feodor's wife
The Turn
snatched up a baby and ran forward whin-
ing, with outstretched begging hand. The
tinker knocked her aside and welcomed
the passengers, who had got down and were
examining his stock.
"Is it to buy you've come, sweet gentle-
men ?" he asked poHtely.
"We'll see about that," said the red-
necked policeman who was looking the
horses over. " 'Tis more likely to jail the lot
of you."
"That would be a strange thing now, and
we doing no sign of harm."
"Tell me, dark man, where do all these
horses come from?"
"From many places, Rai" [Sirs] "There's
a few bred from my own grai Cuhulain.
There's others I bought at Cahirmee Fair,
and different trading places the length and
breadth of Ireland. Maybe you'd like to see
the book with their names in it? Written
down exact and precise by my woman who
is well learned in the arts."
"Black arts, I'm thinking," said the po-
liceman "And this big colt here?"
"The brown one, is it? Sure, that is the
last foal the dappled mare threw for me,
and terrible attached she is to it, as you can
see for yourselves."
" 'Tis ten good years since that one ever
foaled."
"The Rai is mistook. 'Tis two years last
Patrick's Day, and 'tis her last, I'm fearing.
He is wrong of his wind and, if it wasn't
for sentiment, I'd be knocking him on the
head ere this."
"And the sire?"
"Who would that be but Cuhulain him-
self that has the blood of kings in him ? Has
the Rai noticed the markings?"
"I know as well as I am standing here,"
said the red-necked one, "you are lying to
me, but how am I to prove it?"
of the Wheel 197
"Sweet gentleman, that would be a task."
"Aye, and it will also be a task chasing
round the counties of Ireland, accusing de-
cent and otherwise people of having stolen
Mike Riordan's colt."
"And for why would anyone go to that
trouble, seeing the same man is well able
to steal for himself?"
"Give me no lip, tinker, or I'll run you
in."
"You are joking now, sweet mister. You
wouldn't do that. Would you, instead, sit
and drink a drop of the mountain stuff
with us? Or maybe you'd like herself to
tell your fortunes?"
"God forbid! Let you be moving before
I change my mind about you."
The car swirled away in a cloud of dust.
The tinker looked thoughtfully after it.
"Mus\ros St ]u\els" [policemen are dogs]
he said to himself.
Feodor Mackay, the tinker, was a man
that rode as one with his horse. So lithe
and smoothly they moved together, they
were as a single piece. He was kind, too,
with his horses, and many's the lad he had
laid for dead with his big fist for ill treat-
ing one. Whether he loved the horses, or
whether he knew they spelled the differ-
ence between life and starvation to him,
he never stopped to consider. Feodor's strug-
gle for existence was as hard and as subtle
as that of the fox or badger. For wife and
children, and the occasional women of the
ditch, he had little thought. For the rela-
tives and hangers-on that formed his cor-
tege, none at all. They were there to do
him reverence, and how could a man be a
king, if he had no subjects ? So he tagged
them round, and threw food to them, and
took their part in quarrels. When drunk,
he beat them unmercifully. The history of
198 Dorothea
Andiamo he knew, as it is part of the equip-
ment of such hangers-on of Fortune to
know these things, but during the two years
in which he kept the colt he said no word
of it.
Andiamo grew out to match his big
frame during his peaceful adolescence. The
old pinto mare was his pal, but with the
ragtag and bobtail horses that came and
went in the camp he had nothing to do.
He was a very grand four-year-old on the
day that, Feodor, taking him into a fine
open field well out of view of the farmer
whose land it was, ran him in the long
reins — that is, he would have been grand if
his coat was not stiff with mud and burrs,
his tail like the tangled stuffing of a mat-
tress and on his upper lip, the wiry mus-
tache which horses get from feeding on
furze or gorse.
He gave no trouble and, when the tinker,
wheedling and whispering in his usual way,
threw a tentative leg over his back, he stood
square and unconcerned.
"The father and mother of a horse you
are, my boukle, or will be when I say the
word," said Mackay.
There followed an intensive course of
breaking, done secretively at hours of the
morning when only the birds are up, or in
the late evening time when the sun and the
moon struggle for mastery in the same sky
in Ireland.
Mackay arranged the day's journey to
end on the outskirts of some good gallop-
ing ground or place of training, and left
in his wake a trail of curses from men who
rose later to find their best rings scarred
with heavy hoof marks, their carefully built
banks smashed to bits. But regardless of
these respectable gentry, tinker and horse
scoured the country at will, taking the best
of it.
Donn Byrne
One crisp October morning when the
trees were shivering and the gray tint of
winter beginning to settle down, Mackay 's
red-headed woman stood beside him and
the horse, as they took a four-foot hedge,
faultlessly clearing it and the ditch on the
far side.
"You'll be selling him soon.?" said she.
"Winter's near on us."
"I will not. I have other plans," said her
man.
"For why ? He came as a gift."
"And as a gift he goes. This horse is got
by Impatient of the stock of Ascetic."
"And, therefore, Mackay, as you said
when he came, we are rich."
"Not now, but will be. Listen, slut. The
horse comes from Coolveen, where the
Honorable O'Deasy measured with his own
hand the foot of your son that he might buy
him boots."
"The captain was a Noble living, but is
now dead."
"His son lives, and the horse is his."
She caught at his bridle. "Must not your
children eat, Mackay?"
"They will eat, sooner or later is of little
account."
"You are a fool tinker!" screamed the
red woman, jumping just in time out of
range of her husband's ash plant.
Into brigade headquarters of the — teenth
Cavalry on Wiltshire Downs walked our
tinker.
Very smart he was, with new corded
coat, and trousers tighter than his skin. His
face was patched white where the stubble
had been razed to the bone ; the fiery shock
of his hair was soaped flat to his well-
shaped head. Behind him straggled the colt
and the old mare,- a small boy between,
leading them.
The Turn of
"Halt!" came from the sentry. "Where
the hell do you think you're going ? To the
knackers? 'Op it."
Feodor did not argue with him. He
waved the horses back and produced a large
piece of pasteboard on which was inked in
heavy letters:
THE MACKAY KING
FEODOR MOr' MACKAY
HORSE DEALER IN CHIEF TO CASTLE COOLVEEN
"Send that to the Lieutenant O'Deasy,
who will see me at once."
The sentry threw it back in his face and
laughed. "Get to hell out of here, quick,"
he said.
Mackay picked up the card again, and
stepped catlike up to the soldier, who
presented his bayonet at him.
"Englishman," said the tinker, "you are
a louse and a pickpocket. Presently you will
lie dead with your trapple slit, and the
doer will never be found."
The sergeant of the guard came running
out of the guard room and planted himself
between the two, who stood, teeth bared,
like dogs before a fight. As he opened his
mouth in a string of curses, a young officer
who was turning out of the gate in a car
pulled up.
"Come, come, what's all this } No gypsies
allowed here, fellow."
Feodor whirled round, snatching off his
wide-brimmed hat.
"O'Deasy, my darling! God bless the day!
God bless your honor's worship ! 'Tis you've
grown the fine man! Didn't I dandle you,
and you a thrawneen no bigger than Shamus
here! Look on me, my gentleman. 'Tis old
Mackay, from Kerry is in it."
"Good lord, so it is!... All right, you
men" — to the soldiers...."! thought you
the Wheel 199
were dead like the rest, Mackay. But you
can't stand here. Come outside in the field."
He took Feodor by the arm, and they
went out talking. O'Deasy saw the horses.
"What have we here, old pal? Been up
to your tricks, have you?"
"Listen your honor. I've brought you your
horse." He laid his hand on Andiamo's
neck.
"Surely that's never Kitty's colt! What a
wopper he is. I thought that fellow Riordan
had bought him. You've taken my breath
away."
"Riordan came to a bad end as befitted
him. And no one mourned. The horse is
yours. Ask no questions."
O'Deasy was running his hand over the
colt's sides and legs. "He's a damn queer
color, man."
"That will alter itself quickly."
"Do you want to sell me the horse,
Mackay ? I'm a poor man."
"That too will alter itself. I have trained
him for you as no horse in Ireland has been
trained. You will take the National with
him."
"Oh, come now, Mackay!"
"I'm telling you. I know you can ride,
and the rest I have arranged. Let you watch
now."
They were standing near to a five-barred
gate. Mackay twisted his hand in Andiamo's
mane and, with a spring, was on his back.
Loose and easy he sat, his feet hanging. He
backed away twenty yards and then, with
a whistle, drove at the gate. Over it like an
antelope went Andy, and back again as
easily to O'Deasy's feet.
"He's a lepper ! Whatever he may do, I'm
enchanted to have him. Put your price on
him."
"There is no price. Your father, God
bless him, was good to the woman and the
200
Dorothea
children. One favor I will ask — that you
keep tlie old mare close to the colt. They
are comrades. She has been a help in the
rearing of him. I would not see that one
wronged.'*
"I'll keep her."
''Kttshto Bok!' [Good Luck] "I will see
you three years from now at the Aintree.
The day of the National. My blessing with
you, O'Deasy." And with a wave of his
hand, he was gone, the boy trotting like a
dog behind.
"Fair and warm; fresh southeasterly
winds!" rang the weatherman's report on
tlie morning of the 19 — National.
A brave day for once, sharp and clear.
Wiseacres prodded the ground with their
sticks. "There'll be few will stand up to it,"
they said.
From over the world the crowd trekked.
Shiploads in harbor. Planes settling like
awkward birds in the near-by fields. Trains
winding from all points. Old-fashioned
trams and busses jostling long, rakish cars.
Motor bikes, push bikes, foot sloggers.
Hours before the race they were all seething
on that queer angular course that looks
like a huge game a child might set out on
a green carpet. A monstrous piece of arti-
ficiality it is. A hellish ten minutes done at
thirty miles an hour. Growing jumps, fir
and spruce and gorse without an inch of
give to them, flanked by hard wooden
copings. Jumps higher than any five-barred
gate. Bright green of grass. Olive green of
fences. Miles of white railing. Towering
stands and a hundred thousand eyes fixed
on that slight, thin line of horses. No smart
young things such as we see at Ascot or
Epsom, but lean tough, war-scarred old
batders, and the odds against their surviving
just 4 to I.
Donn Byrne
At the gate, Andiamo stood quietly
enough. He was the biggest horse in the
race, and his long body and overhigh fore-
hand gave rise to jeers from the crowd and
the bookies, who didn't regard him as a
serious entry.
"Win or place, I'll give you your own
price on the Irish antelope," called one. "No
scrimping, no Scotsman's prices here — 50
to I the Irishman."
O'Deasy was cool, too — deadly cool. He
knew the course as a sailor his chart — every
blade of grass, every twist. He knew, too,
that his horse would jump when dead tired,
when finished. His only fear was from the
other horses. He would not be jostled. The
others thought too little of his chance to
bother with him, but a falling or refusing
horse might finish him. He ran over in his
mind the old good advice: "Ride the first
time round easy, happy-go-lucky, as if you
were on the tail of the hounds; the second
round you must race." Quiet enough, the
fifty horses stood. The roar of the crowd
came to them — the harsh Lancashire burr,
the high voices of bookies, shouts and
signals of the ticktack men — a great seeth-
ing, noisy burr.
"They're off!" And away went Andiamo,
close to the left-hand rail. Away went they
all. Full tilt at the first fence, each man
striving for balance that his mount might
have a clear sight of the obstacle. Over it
streamed the field along to the next four
plain fences. Some trailed off. Some un-
shipped their jocks. The line thinned out.
They came to Beecher's Brook, where the
favorite hit the fence so hard he lay along
the top on his back, and then toppled into
the brook, bringing down a group of ten
that were on his heels. Curses, flying hoofs
and screams. Andiamo, keeping well out
to the right, avoided the mess, and was over
The Turn
grandly, and on to the next, lying well in
the middle. At the Canal turn, O'Deasy
steadied him, losing a little ground, and
then with a shout, took the jump slantingly.
Andiamo stumbled almost to his knees,
but O'Deasy sat like a rock and they were
on again. On and on. The other jocks began
to notice the horse's jumping, and to crowd
in on him. One little fellow on a big gray
almost threw him at the Chair — the biggest
jump in the world — but Andiamo's superior
bulk told, and the other crashed right under
him. With a supreme effort, O'Deasy Hfted
his mount over the fallen horse and rider.
And they were past the stands again, and
settled down to race. There were only
fifteen horses left now, and plenty of room.
"Horse darling, we'll win yet," muttered
O'Deasy.
As they came out of the country, the
crowd went mad with excitement. "The
big Irish brute! He's a superhorse!"
"Yea, lad, thon's a fair booger."
"Watch him! Watch him!"
"Evens the Irishman!" yelled the bookies,
and then came what looked to be disaster.
Taking off at the second-last fence, the
horse's forefeet tipped the guard rail, and
he stumbled onto the broad jump, to be
suspended across it. O'Deasy felt his heart
break as they sat there, horse and rider
draped over the obstacle.
"He's finished!... He's done!"
"He's no damn good!" went the shout-
ing, till, by a bit of extraordinary good
luck, a loose horse crashed into Andiamo,
knocking him over and falling itself. He
landed on all four feet with a sickening
jar. "His back's broken!" groaned the rider.
But it wasn't. On, on he went, sailed the
last jump, and when O'Deasy gathered him
up for the run-in, he flattened himself like
a grey-hound and passed the post three
oj the Wheel 201
lengths clear of the five horses left.
O'Deasy spoke to no man. He unsaddled
his horse, was weighed in, and then he went
into a corner of the paddock and laughed
quietly to himself for five minutes.
Coolveen lay basking and shimmering
in the summer sun. Prosperity was all about
it. Bright flared the roses on the terrace.
Great activity in the stable yard. Laughing
voices came from the tennis court, and
young people in bathing dress strolled down
the nine acre, where Andiamo, the winner
of the Grand National, was cropping away
with the donkeys and cows.
Minnie Murphy, in a stiff alpaca dress
with a flowered-satin apron, was doing
exactly nothing at all when she saw a ver-
million-painted saloon car come sweeping
up the avenue, and, with a tremendous
whirl and flourish, swing round the court-
yard. Out sprang Feodor Mackay, his red-
headed woman in silk attire, a hat like a
cartwheel on one ear, and a dozen, or
maybe less, immaculate children.
"Well, I'll be blessed," said Minnie, who
was a woman of temperate language. As
she sucked in her breath preparatory to
directing this unseemly outfit to the back
premises, she saw young Captain O'Deasy
run out and throw an arm around Mackay's
shoulders. They all poured into the house.
"Is it how I'll be opening a few botdes
of stout in the kitchen, your honor .^" Min-
nie suggested.
"You will lay tea for everybody on the
terrace, Minnie, my girl," returned her
master, with emphasis. "Meanwhile, I am
sure Mrs. Mackay and the children would
like to see the raspberries in the garden" —
and he turned away with Feodor.
"Faith, I'll bet they would," said Minnie
under her breath.
PETER ALEKSEEVICH SHIRIAEV (1888-1935)
A Trotting Race near Leningrad
from FLATTERY'S FOAL
[English edition TAGUONFS GRANDSON]
It may come rather as a surprise to find a modern Russian novel
devoted to trotting. One thin\s of horses in connection tvith the Russians
only in terms of the Cossac\s. But here is a novel, dealing tvith the
Russian peasants during and after the Bolshevi\^ revolution, which
establishes the fact that the nation, as a tvhole, is tremendously interested
in a sport which most people thin\ of as being almost wholly American.
Contrary to general belief, Russia seems to have developed a breed of
trotters which they consider at least the equal of the American trotter,
I have ta\en the next to the last chapter of the boo\, both for the
excitement of the race described, and for the very interesting picture
it paints of the Russian peasant and his delightful reactions during such
excitement. The whole boo\ is most interesting, giving, as it does, the
history of Flattery and her foal — how she is first in the possession of a
wealthy nobleman and then, when the revolution comes, is ta\en by
a farmer. Although he loses the mare, he manages to retain the colt
in spite of the efforts of a high-ran\ing official to obtain it. The local
color throughout is convincing — whether the American slang used is
the Russian equivalent or whether it's just the translator s idea of what the
peasants would say if they were American, I do not \now, but the result is
free and easy and simple.
y one o'clock the long avenue instead of paving. It stretched to the grand-
leading from the Leningrad Road stand, w^hose sculptured roof loomed in the
to the race-track looked like some distance. Aw^heel or afoot, the crowd
busy central street, but v^ithout shops or streamed forw^ard in a ceaseless flood, as
houses On the left ran a grey w^ooden though a reservoir on the Leningrad Road
fence, an asphalt path bordered by trees, and Vi^ere unsluiced and emptying to the dregs,
a road faced w^ith a thick layer of sand Some v^alked in haste, conning their race-
202
Flattery's Foal
203
cards; others with the steady trudge of the
seasoned race-goer; others again with the
sauntering gait of hoHday-makers, who
cared Httle where they went. The foot of
the avenue was abuzz with program-sellers
and cabmen, touting for fares at a quarter
of a ruble; street-cars were perpetually dis-
gorging men and women, boys and grey-
beards, rich and poor — and from the Bashi-
lovka, which crossed the road and car-lines,
grooms led the trotters, draped in flowered
horse-cloths, to the stables of the hippo-
drome. And this pageant of proud horses,
grey and bay, sorrel and black, in hoods
and blinkers, knee-boots and white band-
ages, with blazing eyes and glistening
flanks, the muscles rippling on sleek arms
and withers, recalled a procession of gladia-
tors marching to some circus, hidden from
view, but near at hand. . . .
When Nikita, on his return to Moscow,
went to the Bashilovka, Loutoshkin gave
him such a welcome as no man had ever
yet bestowed on him; he asked him to his
house, into his dining-room, sat him down,
with Syomka, at his table, and began plying
him with wine and meat pies and all man-
ner of toothsome things on separate plates,
with silver forks and knives. Then he called
to the other room, and out came a young
woman.
"There, Saphir," he said jauntily, nodding
at Nikita, "that's the Grandson's owner,
Nikita Loukitch."
Womanlike, smiling, she waited on him
and Syomka and presently began talking
of the Grandson. She might have been born
on the race-track. Her talk reminded Nikita
of the old veterinary's — spiced with the
same queer lingo and outlandish tongue-
twisters — not at all like woman's prattle,
when she touched on the colt's points and
manners.
"Your wife's just like our veterinary,
Alexandr Egoritch," he exclaimed to Lou-
toshkin when they were alone.
Loutoshkin answered with a laugh.
As soon as Nikita entered the stable, he
dashed into the loose-box where he had
left his precious charge three weeks before.
Instead of the grey Grandson he found an
ugly-tempered sorrel stallion. He turned to
Loutoshkin in dismay.
"Why, don't you see?" said Loutoshkin
laughing. "Come along, I've shifted him.
This way, second box on the left!"
Nikita burst into the box, and halted
spellbound on the threshold. He doffed his
cap and stod scratching his head. It was
not the rangy, tousle-coated Grandson that
he saw, but a sleek, dapple-grey beauty,
with a soft, bushy tail, a saucily clipped
forelock, and a mane like silk.
Syomka whispered hurriedly: "It's not
our colt, I'll take my oath, Papanka ! It's not
ours, they've changed him!"
"Grandson, is it you?" stammered Nikita,
taking a pace forward.
The Grandson turned his head. The
keen, glittering, blue-streaked eyes rested on
him, the nostrils quivered, and the grey
beauty, recognizing his master, snuffled,
and nosed for Nikita's pocket. Hastily
Nikita drew out a lump of sugar and in a
quavering voice began to speak, at once
addressing the horse and Syomka and
Loutoshkin: "He knows me!... You see,
he's trying to tell me. That's him, our
Grandson! It's me, Grandson, me — Nikita!
. . . I've come from Shatnyevka by the rail-
way, in the express ! . . . Syomka's here too
— look at him, look! We've left Nastasya
all alone "
The Grandson looked at Syomka, at
Nikita, at Loutoshkin, glancing from time
204
Peter AIe\seevich Shiriaev
to time over their heads through tlie open
door into the passage, and kept plying his
ears, as if he followed the conversation of
his visitors. Then he thrust out his lips to
Syomka and finally dispelled his doubts; he
pulled olf his cap and tossed it to die
ground. Syomka looked up at his father,
beaming with delight.
"\\'ell, whose colt is he now.f^" asked
Loutoshkin from behind.
Nikita wagged his head smiling, in lieu
of answer.
"We're trotting today, Nikita Loukitch,"
said Loutoshkin, drawing a race-card from
his pocket — "in the fifth race Can you
read? No? Can your son? Well, Semyon,
here you are, read it!"
Sheepishly, syllable by syllable, the boy
floundered through the printed lines under
Nikita's forefinger. Nikita looked at him
with eager pride.
"Tag-ly-o-ney's Grand-son. . . grey stall-
ion."
"Quite right, grey stallion, that's quite
right," burst in Nikita, afraid to breathe and
fastening his eyes on Syomka.
"Born nine-teen . . . twenty-one."
"That's right too, the year of the famine!"
cried Nikita.
"Own-er, Ni— Ni— Lou— Lou— "
"Nikita Loukitch Loukoff," prompted
Loutoshkin.
Nikita bored his nose into the race-card.
He wanted to see himself there with his
own eyes, but Syomka edged away from
him and went on boldly: "By Favourite out
of Flattery. Driven by O. I. Loutoshkin, in-
digo jacket, white cap "
Syomka read on; Nikita wiped his
streaming forehead.
"Take the card as a souvenir," said Lou-
toshkin. "It'll tell you all the other horses
racing with your colt today. Well have to
step out, Nikita, the Grandson's in good
company. We'll start for the track soon,
then you'll see for yourself!"
Philipp stuck his head into the loose-box
and reported: "Sinitsin's sent Mitka here
again — keeps wanting to know how the
colt's shaping."
"And what did you tell him?" asked
Loutoshkin.
"Wha-at? ^Goes like the devil,' I told
him. Because why? If 1 run him down,
he'll smell a rat — *dark horse,' he'll say. But
as it is, I'll keep him guessing!"
Nikita did not quite understand what the
driver and the groom were saying, but he
knew it was about his colt, and he drank in
every word, watching the speakers' lips.
Loutoshkin clapped him gaily on the
shoulder. "I saw to it that we should be
trotting in good company. In the Grand-
son's race there's a mare running called
Chicane. She's a holy terror — driven by my
old friend — ^we drivers do have friends, you
know — ^Vaska Sinitsin. Now I'm going to
show him a race! , . . It's a big prize we're
trotting for, Nikita!"
He fell silent. Nikita looked at him and
said ardently:
"Never you fear, Alim Ivanitch. Just give
him his head, and — ^hell for leather! But
mind you don't take the whip to him, he's
touchy. At Shrovetide me and my wife
drove him to the Settlement; as we came
out on the meadow, I just flicked him with
a twig — ^whish! And up flew his heels — not
meaning nothing. . . . But believe me or
believe me not, I thought we'd never get
home with a whole skin! It's by God's
mercy I'm here to say it! He's a whirlwind,
I tell you, not a horse!"
"It'll be a hard race!" said Philipp grimly,
as if answering Loutoshkin's thoughts.
Flattery's Foal
205
At two o'clock Philipp, Nikita, and
Syomka took the Grandson out to the
Bashilovka and walked him slowly to the
race-track. On the Leningrad Road the
holiday crowds parted to give them passage,
hailing Nikita's horse with exclamations of
delight. Whenever he heard such praise, he
wanted to stop and talk, to explain to all
those well-dressed Moscow strangers that
the horse belonged to him, Nikita LoukofI
of Shatnyevka; that he, the owner, was
taking him to the great race for the cup —
but Philipp frowned and kept shouting:
"Don't stare about you! Mind the street-
cars or you'll get run over!"
Hastily Nikita would shorten the bridle
and look round startled at the passing
street-cars. When they came out on the
track, Nikita and Syomka halted in amaze-
ment. The three-decked stand, like a huge
open hive, throbbed and swarmed, ahum
with a thousand voices Somewhere a
bell clanged. Somewhere, out of sight, a
band struck up. Over a round flat path
smart horses trotted, drawing flimsy car-
riages. The metal spokes flashed as the
wheels spun.
All this reminded Syomka of a fair, only
that here he missed the merry-go-rounds.
Nikita led the Grandson along the black
path close behind the stands, gazing diz-
zily about him, and when he looked up at
the teeming crowds, he held his breath — the
Grandson, Syomka, and himself were in
full view of all those peering faces.
At this thought Nikita puckered his
brows, hunched his shoulders, tautened his
muscles. Himself — Nikita LoukofI — the
grey Grandson, and the lad stood for
Shatnyevka; and all that bustling hive to
the right of him, for Moscow.
Shatnyevka was racing, Moscow looking
on.
He turned his head. A colt was stepping
close behind them. Nikita whispered en-
couragement: "Never mind him, Grand-
son! Just you show *em."
Philipp nudged Nikita and pointed to a
little bay horse coming on at a smart trot,
with a driver in a crimson jacket. "Chicane.
. . . Trotting in your colt's race See
her.?"
Savagely Nikita eyed the Grandson's
rival as she skimmed along the yellow
track; but Syomka thought of this puny
creature in the harvest-field, straining at
a load of sheaves.
"Call that a horse!" he sneered.
Then he whispered to his father: "What's
that red duster on the coachman's back?
Did he cut it out of a flag, Papanka.^^"
Unlike the casual public in the second
row, where stood the boxes, the great bulk
of the spectators in the cheaper seats were
regular race-goers ; nearly all of them knew
each other, they knew the drivers and their
horses, remembered the events for dozens
of years back, and chatted together in their
horsy jargon, which was Greek to a new-
comer, or rather a sort of thieves' Latin or
conspirators' code. Indeed, besides his
knowledge of horse and driver, each had
his own secret code to inform him whether
such and such a horse would win.
"Hey, watch his leg, that's the main
thing!" they would whisper to some novice,
mentioning a driver's name. "If he drops
his left leg at the turn, he's tipping the wink
to a friend of his to bet on him; mustn't
bet themselves, you know — stricdy forbid-
den Aha, there's Yashka ! Does all the
talking with his whip ! Just you take notice
— when his whip's behind him, he won't
win, but when it's up in the air, you can put
your shirt on him ! . . ."
206
Peter Ale\seemch Shiriaev
These men plunged freely, and reviled
and hooted the drivers if they lost. After a
loss they would climb down to the second
row and, fixing a practised eye on some
prosperous greenhorn, stick to him like
burs. They would lead him slyly apart and
whisper breathlessly:
"I know of a dead sure thing! Simply
given away! Safe as the bank!"
And if the victim were incredulous or
doubtful, they moved away with unfeigned
sorrow on their faces, with gait and gesture
eloquent of regret. "Eykh," they seemed to
be saying, "there's the money under his
nose, and he won't take it!"
And again they would brush past him,
breathing into his ear:
"You risk nothing, man Nothing at
all. He'll walk home!"
If the horse won, they were sure of their
commission ; if he lost — they vanished.
On the lowest bench in the third row,
right against the railing, sat Aristarkh
Bourmin. Never absent from the races, he
arrived punctually and always sat in the
same seat. The next was always occupied
by a fat, clean-shaven fellow, with field-
glasses round his neck. Time and again had
the fat man sought to draw his neighbour
into conversation, about horses, drivers, or
the weather; but Aristarkh Bourmin had
never deigned to bestow an answer on this
garrulous stranger. Bolt upright he sat, like
a wooden idol, propped on his walking-
stick, and he seemed to heed and see noth-
ing but the track itself and the horses
moving up and down it. He ignored the
greeting of Sossounoff, who stalked in front
of the rails in his flashy beaver hat and
loud check breeches, and since he knew by
sight all the old horse-breeders and owners,
though on speaking terms with none of
them, deemed it his duty to salute them
all, calling them by their Christian names
and patronymics.
When Sinitsin drove out for the fifth
race, on the bay mare Chicane, the fat man
with the field-glasses began fidgeting and,
longing to let off steam, strove to attract
Bourmin's attention: "Just watch that
mare's action! What splendid time she
keeps! Superb! Her dam, Telyegin's Tina,
never lost a race. Did the mile in two twenty
— on a sticky track."
"Two eighteen it was!" a voice from
above corrected him.
With astounding suppleness the fat man
faced round on the speaker. "Two eighteen,
eh ? Well, there you are ! Two eighteen, on
the mud ! . . . You know, when Nikolai
Vasilyevitch Telyegin died, his hearse was
drawn by Tina, that mare's dam."
"Such riffraff should be hounded off the
course!" Bourmin hissed, addressing the
earth in front of him.
"What — Chicane?" said the fat man
vehemently. "Were you speaking of Chi-
cane ? Ought to be hounded off the course ?"
Bourmin vouchsafed no answer. Laughter
came from above him. Someone said : "Riff-
raff or no riffraff, all the betting's on her.
The driver's sister-in-law's been backing her
— to the tune of fifty rubles."
The fat man looked at the speaker, shot
out of his seat, elbowed his way to the
three-ruble window, fished out a crumpled
note, and pushed it through. "Number one,
please!"
Number one was Chicane.
Having received his ticket, he went back
to his place and again plied Bourmin with
praises of the mare. Bourmin was silent. He
looked down at the race-track, sprinkled
with yellow sand, and his lush black beard
twitched ominously.
Flattery's
Sossounoff, lounging against the rails,
turned to Bourmin and once more raised his
hat.
Nikita and Syomka stood below, in the
members' enclosure.
The mild sunny afternoon had drawn
thousands to the hippodrome that Sunday.
Aeroplanes hummed in the cloudless
blue ; from the tops of the stands gay music
floated; the crowd buzzed with eager chat-
ter; in the inner circle of the hippodrome
fountains played in lawns and flower-beds;
the silken sheen of the drivers' jackets, the
shrill strokes of the judges' bell, proclaiming
that, the races had begun, gave zest and
sparkle to that sun-drenched festival.
Both Syomka and Nikita greedily de-
voured every detail of this glittering show,
standing agape, like children at a toy-shop
window. But when Sinitsin's crimson jacket
flashed upon the course, Nikita's wandering
eyes were fixed on him. His memory took
stock of the round, red-jowled face and held
it all his life. Of the horse too — a little bay
mare, with the number i strapped to her
saddle, she dashed past him, her ears laid
back, her legs plying like a miraculous piece
of clockwork. Though he had never seen a
race, Nikita knew instinctively that here
was his colt's rival. And everytime the
crimson jacket came abreast of them, his
heart misgave him for the Grandson.
Loutoshkin drove out last of all. As he
passed, close to the rails, he nodded gaily
at Nikita. He wore a white cap and a blue
silk jacket. The Grandson, gaitered in white
linen, his head proudly tilted, seemed to
Nikita strange and marvellous. At his sad-
dle-strap hung a little board, with the
number 6 on it.
Next to Nikita stood a man in goggles,
marking his race-card as the trotters passed.
Foal 207
Nikita plucked him by the sleeve and said,
pointing at the Grandson:
"That's our colt! Mine! His name's
Grandson!"
The man in the goggles looked at Nikita,
then at Syomka, but said nothing.
"He's running for the cup We're from
Shatnyevka," explained Nikita.
When the bell rang for the horses to line
up, Loutoshkin drove back some distance
and brought the Grandson forward at a
sharp trot, to warm him up.
A hollow rumble issued from the stands.
Overjoyed at this tribute to his nursling,
Nikita swallowed his pride and tackled the
man in the goggles once again: "That's our
colt — mine ! . . . I'm Nikita Loukoff from
Shatnyevka!"
Just then the strokes of a bell shrilled
out above them. A man with a red flag,
hoisted beside the track on a wooden stand,
like a speaker on a platform, shouldered liis
flag and bellowed:
"Ta-ake your pla-a-ces!"
The six horses, as if drilled to this
manoeuvre, broke into groups of diree and
trotted past Nikita at a lively pace, on tlie
right and left of the track respectively. First
of all came the Grandson, in the farther
group. Loutoshkin's face was grimly set and
— it seemed to Nikita — angry. When they
reached the spot where a man stood with
a paper in his hands, all six horses turned
and dashed forward, Loutoshkin driving
nearest to the rails, an arm's length from
the crowd.
As he drew level with the platform where
the man with the red flag was standing, the
Grandson broke into a gallop. Promptly
the bell clanged overhead, and again the
six horses, in the same order as at first,
swung past Nikita.
208
Peter AJe\seevich Shirtaev
"Tur-iirn!" boomed the man with the
flag.
And again the Grandson, and he only,
started to gallop. Again the bell rang out.
The crowd murmured. Nikita saw Lou-
toshkin's lips move as he passed the man
with the flag; the man gave no answer, but
shouted up in the direction whence the bell
had sounded:
"Number six, ba-ack! Ba-ack six!"
After the Grandson other horses began
to gallop before they reached the start. The
crowd grew restive. A man hissed furiously.
From the top seats came catcalls. For the
fifth time the bell clanged.
Nikita noticed that the bay mare had not
once broken her trot, and that each time
the horses turned, she darted ahead of her
companions. Syomka tugged at his father's
coat-tail.
"Papanka, why do they keep whirling
round? That's the sixth time they've done
it!"
"Shut up ! They know what they're about,
stupid. Keep quiet!" said Nikita in a
whisper, himself hopelessly at sea.
"Why don't they let 'em race?" mutttered
Syomka. "They ain't dancing a quadrille!"
"Tur-urn! .. .Steady, the field! Loutosh-
kin, steady — back!" thundered the man
with the flag; the next moment he jerked
it downwards and barked:
"Off!"
The bell clanged from above. Sinitsin's
crimson jacket flashed to the front. The
Grandson, outstripping the rest, promptly
swallowed up the space between him and
the mare Chicane, but, to Nikita's horror,
lunged suddenly and galloped. Nikita
caught sight of Loutoshkin's face — the
mouth twisted, the bulging eyes fixed on
the crimson jacket forging ahead close to
the rails — noticed the convulsive jerk he
gave the reins, and his back bent like a taut
spring.
The Grandson checked himself, tossed up
his head, and plunged.
Sinitsin's backers cheered and yelped:
"He's well away!"
"That was a fine trick he showed Lou-
toshkin!"
"It's all over but the shouting now!"
"What can he do against that mare ? Two
fifteen!— he can't beat that!"
The fat man with the field-glasses, who
had watched the start with unwonted agita-
tion, turned in triumph to Bourmin. "Well,
what do you say now.f* Hounded off the
course, eh ? Do you know what a pace that
mare's trotting at? Hee-hee-hee! Just like
her dam, Tina! No wonder they let her
draw Telyegin's hearse!"
He took out the ticket with the number i,
flicked it up with his thumb, and added:
"It's a dead sure thing, safe as the bank!"
Loutoshkin was quite unprepared for the
Grandson's break. When the colt galloped,
the thought that he must lose the race un-
nerved him. In a flash he saw Nikita's
face — and Syomka's He remembered
Saphir, somewhere in that crowd Its up-
roar overwhelmed his reason.
"I'm beat!" he thought. "I'll never catch
him!"
But the languid fit, the wave of despair,
passed swiftly, and a moment later Lou-
toshkin mustered his faculties and launched
his will like a stream of fire through the
steel bit into the colt's body.
The Grandson shook his head, as if to
free himself from the steel that fretted him,
but the bit was speaking to him now, com-
manding him to throw his near foot for-
ward. For a moment he jibbed, and shifted
his feet awkwardly; then, striking his
4 *»< '
Flattery's
proper trot, he strung himself out in fierce
pursuit of the horses far in front of him.
The stop-watch in the driver's left ticked
out the seconds lost. Loutoshkin reckoned
his own speed, appraised the powers of his
opponents, and the distance between him
and each of them. Swiftly the Grandson
closed on them, rounded the bend on the
inner side ; and as he came into the straight,
Loutoshkin swung him out boldly from the
rails. It was touch and go.
The Grandson's break had thrown out
Loutoshkin's calculations. He must be care-
ful how he urged him, or he would break
again. But the Grandson responded so
promptly and streaked forward so effort-
lessly that Loutoshkin was possessed with
a sudden confidence, a triumphant ecstasy:
that ecstasy which transmutes cool crafts-
manship into creative force — ^when horse
and driver mingled their essence, when the
impossible is assured and they know only
themselves and their exultant purpose. For
a moment, ever memorable to Loutoshkin,
time stood still. The path before him was
illumined, the holiday brightness of the
crowds enhanced — all was transfigured by
the magic hue of passion; his heart leaped
with the joy of battle, his eyes shone with
the light of victory.
Cries burst from the rapt spectators:
"Look, look! Loutoshkin's off! What a lick
he's going at!"
Dozens of hostile voices answered: "Chi-
cane's got the heels of him, all right!"
"Lost more than three seconds when he
broke! Won't make that up in a hurry!"
"That break's settled his hash!"
"He can't possibly win against that mare,"
affirmed the experts. "Sinitsin's going easily,
he's got the race in his pocket."
When Nikita saw that the Grandson had
Foal Tog
recovered and was catching up with the
other horses, he plucked Syomka by the
tail of his long shirt and panted: "Say your
*Angcls and archangels,' for Grandson to
get the cup! Say it, boy!"
"I don't know it!"
'Say it, you little stinkard! Now then,
out with it!"
Nikita himself did not know the prayer,
except for the first two words, which he
kept whispering fervently, never taking his
eyes off the horses, which had now turned
into the straight.
In front came the little mare, a few
lengths from the rest. But suddenly the field
seemed spellbound. From the side it looked
as if they had all stopped and only the
grey colt were moving. The crimson jacket
floated back, Loutoshkin's indigo pressed
on, drew level, vanished behind it, and
crept slowly to the front; farther he came,
and faster, hugging the rails now. Chicane
dropped back, yielding position and pre-
eminence to the Grandson. Sinitsin's whip
was going like a flail.
Nikita and Syomka climbed the barrier
and, squatting down, slapping their ribs and
thighs, cried to each other and the world
at large: "See there!... See there!... Our
colt's winning! Yes, it's our colt, the Grand-
son!... See how he's coming on!"
Higher and higher surged the tumult.
The public swarmed on the benches, the
railings of the boxes, the balustrades flank-
ing the steps. Loutoshkin forged relentlessly
ahead. The gap between the Grandson and
Chicane rapidly lengthened. The Grandson
was now near the post, but Loutoshkin still
kept urging him.
"What's the man doing .^^ He's won al-
ready!" shouted an onlooker.
"Must have gone crazy!" said another.
Nikita looked round at the great, bawling
210
Peter Ale\seeinch Shiriaev
face of Moscow and in a frenzy of local
patriotism tore oft" his cap, whirled it round
his head, and smacked it on his knee. "Go
it, Grandson! . . . Eykh, you're a beauty! . . .
That's our Shatnyevka breed! Go it!'*
"Is he trying to leave 'em all behind the
flag?" said voices.
"Yes, and he'll do it!" others answered.
Aristarkh Bourmin turned to the fat man.
"Where's your Chicane now.f^" he rasped.
"Well, what do you expect?" exploded
the fat man. 'Plain as a pike-staff! Loutosh-
kin was always a trickster; he's had this
dark horse up his sleeve; backed him him-
self, of course, and . . ."
"Not a dark horse, my dear sir, an
Orlo-ffr said Bourmin haughtily.
"Taglioni's Grandson an Orloff !" sneered
the fat man. "How do you make that out ?
Grandsire three-quarters American — sired
by Heubingen — granddam a cross-breed —
sired by Baron Rogers — and you say his
grandson's an Orloff!"
With that he pressed his bulk half over
the barrier and howled at the oncoming
Loutoshkin: "Swin-dler! Thief! Scoun-
drel!"
And again he turned spitefully to Bour-
min, whose face paled as he watched the
colt, now nearly abreast of them: *May I
point out once more that that colt owes his
speed to the American Taglioni!"
"To his Orloff blood, you mean. , , , A fig
for your Taglioni!" Bourmin shouted in
the fat man's face. He rose, majestically
erect. "His dam, the grey Flattery, was in
my stable. In those days I owned her."
"Vanished like a dream, those days,
Aristarkh Sergyeevitch!" the fat man
sighed, addressing Bourmin by name for
the first time. He crushed his useless ticket
in his palm. "You might care to know that
I, too, owned a stud-farm once; it vanished."
Bourmin had not listened. He was al-
ready stalking out towards the gate, with
upflung head and black beard bristling
disdain.
As he came to the finish straight, Lou-
toshkin raised his whip. At its touch the
Grandson shot forward like a bolt from a
catapult, finishing in record time. The
stands rocked and roared with jubilation.
As the colt slowed up, the public saw two
uncouth figures make a dash at him.
Having weighed in, Loutoshkin stepped
down from the sulky and approached
Nikita.
Never had he seen such joy on the face
of man. And the knowledge that he, Lou-
toshkin, was the author of this joy in a
humble peasant's heart rejoiced his own;
the eternal, close-fenced circle of the hippo-
drome snapped — and a bright path
streamed from it, far off, to the simple
hearts, the smiling plains of human
happiness. , , .
JESSAMYN WEST (contemporary)
First Day Finish
from THE FRIENDLY PERSUASION
Here, to my mind, is one of the finest modern stories concerning horses,
and Jessamyn West is greatly to be congratulated. The humor and
originality of the plot, the vivid, picturesque dialogue, the really beau-
tiful descriptions, ma\e the story one that should be long remembered.
V^ W ghee's home, Lady," Jess told his
I mare.
JlL They had made the trip in jig
time. The sun was still up, catalpa shadows
long across the grass, and mud daubers still
busy about the horse trough, gathering a
few last loads before nightfall, when Lady
turned in the home driveway.
Jess loosened the reins, so that on their
first homecoming together they could
round the curve to the barn with a little
flourish of arrival. It was a short-lived
flourish, quickly subsiding when Jess caught
sight of the Reverend Marcus Augustus
Godley's Black Prince tied to the hitching
rack.
"Look who's here," Jess told his mare
and they came in slow and seemly as be-
fitted travelers with forty weary miles
behind them.
The Reverend Godley himself, shading
his eyes from the low sun, stepped to the
barn door when his Black Prince nickered.
Jess lit stiffly down and was standing at
Lady's head when the Reverend Marcus
Augustus reached them.
"Good evening, Marcus," said Jess. "Thee
run short of something over at thy placer"
"Welcome home," said Reverend Godley,
never flinching. "I was hunting, with
Enoch's help, a bolt to fit my seeder," he
told Jess, but he never took his eyes off
Lady.
He was a big man, fat but not pursy,
with a full red face preaching had kept
supple and limber. A variety of feelings,
mostly painful, flickered across it now as he
gazed at Jess's mare.
He opened and shut his mouth a couple
of times, but all he managed to say was,
"Where'd you come across that animal,
Friend Bir dwell .^"
"Kentucky," Jess said shortly.
"I'm a Kentuckian myself." The Reve-
rend Godley marveled that the state that
had fathered him could have produced such
horseflesh.
211
212 Jessamyn
"You trade Re J Rover for this?" he
asked.
Jess rubbed his hand along Lady's neck.
**The mare's name is Lady," he said.
"Lady!" the preacher gulped, then threw
back his big head and disturbed the evening
air with laughter.
"Friend," Jess said, watching the big bulk
heave, "tliy risibilities are mighty near the
surface this evening."
The Reverend Godley wiped the tears
from his face and ventured another look.
"It's just the cleavage," he said. "The rift
bet\veen the name and looks."
"That's a matter of opinion," Jess told
him, "but Lady is the name."
The preacher stepped off a pace or two
as if to try the advantage of a new per-
spective on the mare's appearance, clapped
a handful of Sen-sen into his mouth, and
chewed reflectively.
"I figure it this way," he told Jess. "You
bought that animal Red Rover. Flashy as
sin and twice as unreliable. First little brush
you have with me and my cob. Red Rover
curdles on you — goes sourer than a crock
of cream in a June storm. What's the na-
tural thing to do?"
The Reverend Godley gave his talk a
pulpit pause and rested his big thumbs in
his curving watch chain.
"The natural thing to do? Why, just
what you done. Give speed the go-by. Say
Farewell to looks. Get yourself a beast
sound in wind and limb and at home be-
hind a plow. Friend," he commended Jess,
"you done the right thing, though I'm free
to admit I never laid eyes before on a beast
of such dimensions.
"Have some Sen-sen?" he asked amiably.
"Does wonders for the breath." Jess shook
his head.
"Well/' he continued, "I want you to
West
know — Sunday mornings on the way to
church, when I pass you, there's nothing
personal in it. That morning when I went
round you and Red Rover, I somehow got
the idea you's taking it personal. Speed's an
eternal verity, friend, an eternal verity.
Nothing personal. The stars shine. The
grass withereth. The race is to the swift.
A fast horse passes a slow one. An eternal
verity. Friend Bird well. You're no preacher,
but your wife is. She understands these
things. Nothing personal. Like gravitation,
like life, like death. A law of God. Nothing
personal.
"The good woman will be hallooing for
me," he said, gazing up the pike toward
his own farm a quarter of a mile away. He
took another look at Jess's new mare.
"Name's Lady," he said, as if reminding
himself. "Much obliged for the bolt. Friend
Birdwell. Me and my cob'U see you
Sunday."
Enoch stepped out from the barn door
as the Reverend Godley turned down the
driveway.
"Figure I heard my sermon for the
week," he said.
"He's got an endurin' flock," Jess told
his hired man.
"Cob?" Enoch asked. "What's he mean
aways calling that animal of his a cob?
He ignorant?"
"Not ignorant — smooth," Jess said. "Cob's
just his way of saying Black Prince's no
ordinary beast without coming straight out
with so undraped a word as stallion."
The two men turned with one accord
from Godley 's cob to Jess's Lady. Enoch's
green eyes flickered knowingly; his long
freckled hand touched Lady's muscled
shoulder lightly, ran down the powerful
legs, explored the deep chest.
The Friendly
"There's more here, Mr. Birdwell, than
meets the eye ?"
Jess nodded.
"As far as looks goes/* Enoch said, "the
Reverend called the turn."
"As far as looks goes," Jess agreed.
"She part Morgan?"
"Half," Jess said proudly.
Enoch swallowed. "How'd you swing
it.?"
"Providence," Jess said. "Pure Providence.
Widow woman wanted a pretty horse and
one that could be passed."
"Red Rover," Enoch agreed, and added
softly, "The Reverend was took in."
"He's a smart man," said Jess. "We'd
best not bank on it. But by sugar, Enoch,
I tell thee I was getting tired of taking
Eliza down the pike to Meeting every
First Day like a tail to Godley's comet.
Have him start late, go round me, then slow
down so's we'd eat dust. Riled me so I was
arriving at Meeting in no fit state to wor-
ship."
"You give her a tryout — coming home.?"
Enoch asked guardedly.
"I did, Enoch," Jess said solemnly. "This
horse, this Morgan mare named Lady, got
the heart of a lion and the wings of a bird.
Nothing without pinfeathers is going to
pass her."
"It's like Mr. Emerson says," said Enoch
earnestly.
Jess nodded. "Compensation," he agreed.
"A clear case of it and her pure due con-
sidering the looks she's got."
"You figure on this Sunday.?" Enoch
asked.
"Well," Jess said, "I plan to figure on
nothing. Thee heard the Reverend Marcus
Augustus. A fast horse goes round a slow
one. Eternal law. If Black Prince tries to
pass us First Day — and don't — it's just a
Persuasion 213
law, just something eternal. And mighty
pretty, Enoch, like the stars."
"A pity," Enoch said reflecting, "The
Reverend's young 'uns all so piddling and
yours such busters. It'll tell on your mare."
"A pity," Jess acquiesced, "but there it is.
Eliza'd never agree to leave the children
home from Meeting."
Enoch ruminated, his fingers busy with
Lady's harness. "What'U your wife say to
this mare? Been a considerable amount of
trading lately."
"Say?" said Jess. "Thee heard her. 'Ex-
change Red Rover for a horse not racy-
looking.' This mare racy-looking?"
"You have to look twice to see it," Enoch
admitted.
"Eliza don't look twice at a horse. I'll
just lead Lady up now for Eliza to see. She
don't hold with coming down to the barn
while men's about."
Jess took Lady from the shafts and led
her between rows of currant bushes up to
the house. Dusk was come now, lamps were
lit. Inside, Eliza and the children were
waiting for their greeting until the men
had had their talk.
"Lady," Jess said fondly, "I want thee
to see thy mistress."
The rest of the week went by, mild and
very fair, one of those spells in autumn
when time seems to stand still. Clear davs
with a wind which would die down by
afternoon. The faraway Sandusky ridges
seemed to have moved up to the orchard's
edge. The purple ironwxed, the farewell
summer, the goldenrod, stood untrembling
beneath an unclouded skv. Onto the corn
standing shocked in the fields, gold light
softer than arrows, but as pointed, fell. A
single crow at dusk would drop in a slow
arc against the distant wood to show that
214 Jessamyn
not all had died. Indian summer can be a
time of great content.
First Day turned up pretty. Just before
the start for Meeting, Jess discovered a hub
cap missing off the surrey.
"Lost?" asked Eliza.
"I wouldn't say lost," Jess told her. "Miss-
ing.
Odd thing, a pity^ to be sure, but there it
was. Nothing for it but for him and Eliza
to ride to meeting in the cut-down buggy
and leave tlie children behind. Great pity,
but there it was.
Eliza stood in the yard in her First Day
silk. "J^ss," she said in a balky voice, "this
isn't my idea of what's seemly. A preacher
going to Meeting in a cut-down rig like this.
Looks more like heading for the trotting
races at the county fair than preaching."
Jess said, "Thee surprises me, Eliza. Thee
was used to put duty before appearance.
Friend Fox was content to tramp the roads
to reach his people. Thee asks for thy surrey,
fresh blacking on the dashboard and a new
whip in the socket."
He turned away sadly. "The Lord's
people are everywhere grown more
worldly," he said, looking dismally at the
ground.
It didn't set good with Jess, pushing Eliza
against her will that way — and he wasn't
too sure it was going to work. But the name
Fox got her. When she was a girl she'd
set out to bring the Word to people, the
way Fox had done, and he'd have gone,
she knew, to Meeting in a barrow, if need
be.
So that's the way they started out, and
in spite of the rig, Eliza was lighthearted
and holy-feeling. When they pulled out on
the pike, she was pleased to note the mare's
gait was better than her looks. Lady picked
West
up her feet like she knew what to do with
them.
"Thee's got a good-pulling mare, Jess,"
she said kindly.
"She'll get us there, I don't misdoubt,"
Jess said.
They'd rounded the first curve below
the clump of maples that gave Maple Grove
Nursery its name when the Reverend
Godley bore down upon them. Neither
bothered to look back, both knew the heavy,
steady beat of Black Prince's hoofs.
Eliza settled herself in the cut-down rig,
her Bible held comfortably in her lap. "It
taxes the imagination," she said, "how a
man church-bound can have his mind so
set on besting another. Don't thee think so,
Jess.?"
"It don't tax mine," Jess said, thinking
honesty might be the only virtue he'd get
credit for that day.
Eliza was surprised not to see Black
Prince pulling abreast them. It was here
on the long stretch of level road that Black
Prince usually showed them his heels.
"Thee'd best pull over, Jess," she said.
"I got no call to pull out in the ditch,"
Jess said. "The law allows me half the
road."
The mare hadn't made any fuss about it
— no head-shaking, no fancy footwork — ^but
she'd settled down in her harness, she
was traveling. It was plain to Eliza they
were eating up the road.
"Don't thee think we'd better pull up,
Jess.?" Eliza said it easy, so as not to stir up
the contrary streak that wasn't buried very
deep in her husband.
"By sugar," Jess said, "I don't see why.'^
As soon as Eliza heard that "by sugar"
spoken as bold-faced as if it were a weekday,
The Friendly
she knew it was too late for soft words. "By
sugar" Jess said again, "I don't see why. The
Reverend Godley's got half the road and
I ain't urging my mare."
It depended on what you called urging.
He hadn't taken to lambasting Lady with
his hat yet, the way he had Red Rover, but
he was sitting on the edge of his seat — and
sitting mighty light, it was plain to see —
driving the mare with an easy rein and
talking to her like a weanling.
"Thee's a fine mare. Thee's a tryer. Thee's
a credit to thy dam. Never have to think
twice about thy looks again."
Maybe, strictly speaking, that was just
encouraging, not urging, but Eliza wasn't
in a hairsplitting mood.
She looked back at the Reverend Marcus
Augustus, and no two ways about it: he
was urging Black Prince. The Reverend
Godley's cob wasn't a length behind them
and the Reverend himself was half stand-
ing, slapping the reins across Black Prince's
rump and exhorting him like a sinner
newly come to the mourner's bench.
This was a pass to which Eliza hadn't
thought to come twice in a lifetime — twice
in a lifetime to be heading for Meeting like
a county fair racer in a checkered shirt.
"Nothing lacking now," she thought
bitterly, "but for bets to be laid on us."
That wasn't lacking, either, if Eliza had
only known it. They'd come in view of the
Bethel Church now, and more than one of
Godley's flock had got so carried away by
the race as to try for odds on their own
preacher. It didn't seem loyal not to back up
their Kentucky brother with hard cash.
Two to one the odds were — with no takers.
The Bethel Church sat atop a long, low
rise, not much to the eye — ^but it told on
a light mare pulling against a heavy stal-
lion, and it was here Black Prince began to
Persuasion 215
close in; before the rise was half covered,
the stallion's nose was pressing toward the
buggy's back wheel.
Jess had given up encouraging. He was
urging now. Eliza lifted the hat ofF his
head. Come what might, there wasn't going
to be any more hat-whacking if she could
help it — Jess was beyond knowing whether
his head was bare or covered. He was pull-
ing with his mare now, sweating with her,
sucking the air into scalding lungs with
her. Lady had slowed on the rise — she'd
have been dead if she hadn't — but she was
still a-going, still trying hard. Only the
Quaker blood in Jess's veins kept him
from shouting with pride at his mare's
performance.
The Reverend Godley didn't have
Quaker blood in his veins. What he had
was Kentucky horse-racing blood, and
when Black Prince got his nose opposite
Lady's rump Godley's racing blood got the
best of him. He began to talk to his cob
in a voice that got its volume from camp-
meeting practice — and its vocabulary, too,
as a matter of fact — but he was using it in
a fashion his camp-meeting congregation
had never heard.
They were almost opposite the Bethel
Church now; Black Prince had nosed up
an inch or two more on Lady and the
Reverend Godley was still strongly ex-
horting — getting mighty personal, for a
man of his convictions.
But Lady was a stayer and so was Jess.
And Eliza too, for that matter. Jess spared
her a glance out of the corner of his eye
to see how she was faring. She was faring
mighty well — sitting bolt upright, her Bible
tightly clasped, and clucking to the mare.
Jess couldn't credit what he heard. But
there was no doubt about it — Eliza was
counseling Lady. "Thee keep a-going.
2i6 Jessamyn
Lady," she called. Eliza hadn't camp-meet-
ing experience, but she had a good clear
pulpit voice and Lady heard her.
She kept a-going. She did better. She un-
loosed a spurt of speed Jess hadn't known
was in her. Lady was used to being held
back, not yelled at in a brush. Yelling got
her dander up. She stretched out her long
neck, lengthened her powerful stride, and
pulled away from Black Prince just as they
reached the Bethel Church grounds.
Jess thought the race was won and over,
that from here on the pace to Meeting
could be more suitable to First Dav travel.
But the Reverend Godley had no mind to
stop at so critical a juncture. He'd wrestled
with sinners too long to give up at the first
setback. He figured the mare was weaken-
ing. He figured that with a strong stayer like
his Black Prince he'd settle the matter easy
in the half mile that lay between Bethel
Church and the Quaker Meetinghouse at
Rush Branch. He kept a-coming.
But one thins" he didn't figure — that was
that the slope from Bethel to Rush Branch
was against him. Lady had a downhill
grade now. It was all she needed. She didn't
pull away from Black Prince in any
whirlwind style, but stride by stride she
pulled away.
It was a great pity Jess's joy in that brush
had to be marred. He'd eaten humble pie
some time now, and he was pleasured
through and through to be doing the dish-
ing up himself. And he was pleasured for
the mare's sake.
But neither w^inning nor his mare's pleas-
ure was first with Jess. Eliza was. There
she sat, white and suffering, holding her
Bible like it was the Rock of Ages from
which she'd come mighty near to clean slip-
ping off. Jess knew Eliza had a forgiving
West
heart when it came to others — ^but w^hether
she could forgive herself for getting heated
over a horse race the way she'd done, he
couldn't say.
And the worst for Eliza was yet to come.
Jess saw that clear enough. When Lady and
Black Prince had pounded past Godley's
church, a number of the Bethel brediren,
who had arrived early and were still in their
rigs, set out behind the Reverend Marcus
Augustus to be in at the finish. And they
were going to be. Their brother was losing,
but they were for him still, close behind and
encouraging him in a v/holehearted way.
The whole caboodle was going to sweep
behind Jess and Eliza into the Quaker
churchyard. They wouldn't linger, but Jess
feared they'd turn around there before
heading back. And that's the way it was.
Lady was three lengths ahead of Black
Prince when they reached the Rush Branch
Meetinghouse. Jess eased her for the turn,
made it on tw^o wheels, and drew in close to
the church. The Bethelites swooped in be-
hind him and on out — plainly beat but not
subdued. The Reverend Marcus Augustus
was the only man among them without a
word to say. He was as silent as a tomb-
stone and considerablv crrimmer. Even his
fancy vest looked to have faded.
The Quakers waiting in the yard for
Meeting to begin were quiet, too. Jess
couldn't tell from their faces what they
were feeling; but there was no use thinking
that tliey considered what they'd just wit-
nessed an edifvin^ si^ht. Not for a weekdav
even, that mess of rigs hitting it down the
pike with all diat hullabaloo — let alone to
First Day and their preacher up front, lead-
ing it,
Jess asked a boy to look after Lady. He
was so taken up with Ehza he no more than
laid a fond hand on Lady's hot flank in
The Friendly
passing. He helped Eliza light down, and
set his hat on his head when she handed it
to him. Eliza looked mighty peaked and
withdrawn, like a woman communing
with her Lord.
She bowed to her congregation and they
bowed back and she led them out of the
sunshine into the Meetinghouse with no
word being spoken on either side. She
walked to the preacher's bench, laid her
Bible quietly down, and untied her bonnet
strings.
Jess sat rigid in his seat among the men.
Jess was a birthright Quaker — and his father
and grandfathers before him — and he'd
known Quakers to be read out of Meeting
for less.
Eliza laid her little plump hands on her
Bible and bowed her head in silent prayer.
Jess didn't know how long it lasted — some-
times it seemed stretching out into eternity,
but Quakers were used to silent worship,
and he was the only one who seemed res-
tive. About the time the ice round Jess's
heart was hardening past his enduring,
Eliza's sweet, cool, carrying voice said, "If
the spirit leads any of thee to speak, will
thee speak now?"
Then Eliza lowered her head again —
but Jess peered round the Meetinghouse. He
thought he saw a contented look on most
of the faces — nothing that went so far as
to warm into a smile, but a look that said
they were satisfied the way the Lord had
handled things. And the spirit didn't move
any member of the congregation to speak
that day except for the prayers of two
elderly Friends in closing.
The ride home was mighty quiet. They
drove past Bethel Church, where the ser-
mon had been short — for all the hitching
racks were empty. Lady carried diem along
proud and untired. Enoch and the children
Persuasion 217
met them down the pike a ways from home
and Jess nodded the good news to Enoch —
but he couldn't glory in it the way he'd like
because of Eliza.
Eliza was kind, but silent. Very silent.
She s{X)ke when spoken to, did her whole
duty by the children and Jess, but in all the
ways that made Eliza most herself, she was
absent and withdrawn.
Toward evening Jess felt a little dauncy
— a pain beneath the ribs, heart, or stomach,
he couldn't say which. He thought he'd
brew himself a cup of sassafras tea, take it
to bed and drink it there, and maybe find a
little ease.
It was past nightfall when Jess entered
his and Eliza's chamber, but there was a
full moon and by its light he saw Eliza
sitting at the east window in her white
nightdress, plaiting her bbck hair.
"Jess," asked Eliza, noting the cup he car-
ried, "has thee been taken ill?"
"No," Jess said, "no," his pain easing off
of itself when he heard by the tones of
Eliza's voice that she was restored to him —
forgiving and gentle, letting bygones be
bygones.
"Eliza," he asked, "wouldn't thee like a
nice hot cup of sassafras tea?"
"Why, yes, Jess," Eliza said. "That'd be
real refreshing."
Jess carried Eliza her cup of tea walking
down a path of roses the moon had lit up in
the ingrain carpet.
He stood, while she drank it, with his
hand on her chair, gazing out of the win-
dow: the whole upcurve and embowered
sweep of the earth soaked in moonlight —
hill and wood lot, orchard and silent river.
And beneath that sheen his own rooftree,
and all beneath it, peaceful and at rest. Lady
in her stall, Enoch reading Emerson, the
children long abed.
2l8
Jessatnyn West
" 'Sweet day',** he said, " *so cool, so calm,
so bright, tlie bridal of the earth and sky'."
And though he felt so pensive and repose-
ful, still the bridge of his big nose wrinkled
up, his ribs shook with laughter.
Eliza felt the movement of his laughing
in her chair. "What is it^ Jess ?" she asked.
Jess stopped laughing, but said nothing.
He figured Eliza had gone about as far
in one day as a woman could in enlarging
her appreciation of horseflesh; still he
couldn't help smiling when he thought of
the sermon that might have been preached
in the Bethel Church upon eternal verities.
R. D. BLACKMORE (1825-1900)
A Rough Ride
from LORNA DOONE
Surely nowhere in English literature will you find a more beautiful and
inspiring description than this, of how John Ridd rode the highways
mans horse that was reputed to be a witch. The beautiful rhythm of the
writing brings to mind that other poetical description, given on page
75 of this boo\, of how the horse thief tried to ride Pegasus.* And the
analogies are superb.
ell, young uns, what be gaping
at?" He gave pretty Annie a
chuck on the chin, and took
me all in without winking.
"Your mare," said I, standing stoutly up,
being a tall boy now; "I never saw such a
beauty, sir. Will you let me have a ride of
her?"
"Think thou couldst ride her, lad? She
will have no burden but mine. Thou couldst
never ride her. Tut! I would be loath to kill
thee."
"Ride her!" I cried with the bravest scorn,
for she looked so kind and gentle; "there
never was a horse upon Exmoor foaled, but
I could tackle in half an hour. Only I never
ride upon saddle. Take them leathers off
of her."
* The Horse Thief, by William Rose Benet.
He looked at me with a dry Httle whistle,
and thrust his hands into his breeches-
pockets, and so grinned that I could not
stand it. And Annie laid hold of me in such
a way that I was almost mad with her. And
he laughed, and approved her for doing so.
And the worst of all was — ^he said nothing.
"Get away, Annie, will you? Do you
think I'm a fool, good sir! Only trust me
with her, and I will not override her."
"For that I will go bail, my son. She is
liker to override thee. But the ground is soft
to fall upon, after all this rain. Now come
out into the yard, young man, for the sake
of your mother's cabbages. And the mellow
straw-bed will be softer for thee, since pride
must have its fall. I am thy mother's cousin,
boy, and am going up to house. Tom
219
220
R. D. Blac\more
Faggus is my name, as everybody knows;
and this is my young mare, Winnie."
What a fool I must have been not to know
it at once ! Tom Faggus, the great highw^ay-
man, and his young blood-mare, the straw-
berry! Already her fame was noised abroad,
nearly as much as her master's; and my
longing to ride her grew tenfold, but fear
came at the back of it. Not diat I had the
smallest fear of what the mare could do to
me, by fair play and horse-trickery, but
that the glory of sitting upon her seemed to
be too great for me ; especially as there were
rumours abroad that she was not a mare
after all, but a witch. However, she looked
like a filly all over, and wonderfully beauti-
ful, with her supple stride, and soft slope
of shoulder, and glossy coat beaded with
water, and prominent eyes full of docile
fire. Whether this came from her Eastern
blood of the Arabs newly imported, and
whether the cream-colour, mixed with our
bay, led to that bright strawberry tint, is
certainly more than I can decide, being
chiefly acquaint with farm-horses. And
these come of any colour and form; you
never can count what they will be, and
are lucky to get four legs to them.
Mr. Faggus gave his mare a wink, and
she walked demurely after him, a bright
young thing, flowing over with life, yet
dropping her soul to a higher one, and led
by love to anything; as the manner is of
females, when they know what is the best
for them. Then Winnie trod lightly upon
the straw, because it had soft muck under
it, and her delicate feet came back again.
"Up for it still, boy, be ye V Tom Faggus
stopped, and the mare stopped there; and
they looked at me provokingly.
"Is she able to leap, sir.? There is good
take-off on this side of the brook."
Mr. Faggus laughed very quietly, turning
round to Winnie so that she might enter
into it. And she, for her part, seemed to
know exactly where the fun lay.
"Good tumble-off, you mean, my boy.
Well, there can be small harm to thee. I
am akin to thy family, and know the sub-
stance of their skulls."
"Let me get up," said I, waxing wroth,
for reasons I cannot tell you, because they
are too manifold; "take ofT your saddle-bag
things. I will try not to squeeze her ribs
in, unless she plays nonsense with me."
Then Mr. Faggus was up on his mettle,
at this proud speech of mine; and John
Fry was running up all the while, and Bill
Dadds, and half a dozen. Tom Faggus
gave one glance around, and then dropped
all regard for me. The high repute of his
mare was at stake, and what was my life
compared to it ? Through my defiance, and
stupid ways, here was I in a duello, and my
legs not come to their strength yet, and my
arms as limp as a herring.
Something of this occurred to him, even
in his wrath with me, for he spoke very
softly to the filly, who now could scarce
subdue herself; but she drew in her nostrils,
and breathed to his breath, and did all she
could to answer him.
"Not too hard, my dear," he said; "let
him gently down on the mixen. That will
be quite enough." Then he turned the sad-
dle off, and I was up in a moment. She
began at first so easily, and pricked her
ears so lovingly, and minced about as if
pleased to find so light a weight upon her,
that I thought she knew I could ride a little,
and feared to show any capers. "Gee wugg,
Polly!" cried I, for all the men were now
looking on, being then at the leaving-ofl
time; "Gee wugg, Polly, and show what
Lorna Doone
221
thou be'est made of." With that I plugged
my heels into her, and Billy Dadds flung
his hat up.
Nevertheless, she outraged not, though
her eyes were frightening Annie, and John
Fry took a pick to keep him safe; but she
curbed to and fro with her strong forearms
rising like springs ingathered, waiting and
quivering grievously, and beginning to
sweat about it. Then her master gave a
shrill clear whistle, when her ears were
bent towards him, and I felt her form be-
neath me gathering up like whalebone, and
her hind-legs coming under her, and I
knew that I was in for it.
First she reared upright in the air, and
struck me full on the nose with her comb,
till I bled worse than Robin Snell made me;
and then down with her fore-feet deep in
the straw, and her hind-feet going to
heaven. Finding me stick to her still like
wax, for my mettle was up as hers was,
away she flew with me swifter than ever I
went before, or since, I trow. She drove full-
head at the cob-wall — "Oh, Jack, slip off,"
screamed Annie — then she turned like light,
when I thought to crush her, and ground
my left knee against it. "Mux me," I cried,
for my breeches were broken, and short
words went the furthest — "if you kill
me, you shall die with me." Then she took
the courtyard gate at a leap, knocking my
words between my teeth, and then right
over a quick set hedge, as if the sky were a
breath to her; and away for the water-
meadows, while I lay on her neck like a
child at the breast, and wished I had never
been born. Straight away, all in the front of
the wind, and scattering clouds around her,
all I knew of the speed we made was the
frightful flash of her shoulders, and her
mane like trees in a tempest. I felt the earth
under us rushing away, and the air left far
behind us, and my breath came and went,
and I prayed to God, and was sorry to be
so late of it.
All the long swift while, without power
of thought, I clung to her crest and shoul-
ders, and dug my nails into her creases,
and my toes into her flank-part, and was
proud of holding on so long, though sure
of being beaten. Then in her fury at feeling
me still, she rushed at another device for it,
and leaped the wide water-trough sideways
across, to and fro, till no breath was left in
me. The hazelboughs took me too hard in
the face, and the tall dog-briers got hold of
me, and the ache of my back was like
crimping a fish; till I longed to give it up,
thoroughly beaten, and lie there and die in
the cresses. But there came a shrill whistle
from up the home-hill, where the people
had hurried to watch us; and the mare
stopped as if with a bullet; then set off for
home with the speed of a swallow, and
going as smoothly and silently. I never had
dreamed of such delicate motion, fluent,
and graceful, and ambient, soft as the
breeze flitting over the flowers, but swift
as the summer lightning. I sat up again,
but my strength was all spent, and no time
left to recover it, and though she rose at
our gate like a bird, I tumbled off into the
mixen.
DONN BITINE (1889-1928)
Tale of the Gipsy Horse
from DESTINY BAY
Nowhere in literature is there a more colorful or a more loved horse
story than this. Many have written of the ''raggle-taggle' gypsies, but
here we have the aristocracy and pride of the gypsies. It is a story to
which one returns over the years, never failing to find new flavor and
new delight in its reading,
O saddle me my milk white steed,
Go and fetch me my pony, O!
That I may ride and seek my bride,
Who is gone with the raggle-taggle gypsies, 01
* ANON.
1 thought first of the old lady's face, in
the candleHght of the dinner table at
Destiny Bay, as some fine precious coin,
a spade guinea perhaps, well and truly
minted. How old she was I could not ven-
ture to guess, but I knew well that when she
was young men's heads must have turned as
she passed. Age had boldened the features
much, the proud nose and definite chin.
Her hair was grey, vitally grey, like a grey
wave curling in to crash on the sands of
Destiny. And I knew that in another
woman that hair would be white as
scutched flax. When she spoke, the thought
of the spade guinea came to me again,
so rich and golden was her voice.
"Lady Clontarf," said my uncle Valen-
tine, "this is Kerry, Hector's boy."
"May I call you Kerry? I am so old a
woman and you are so much a boy. Also
I knew your father. He was of that great
line of soldiers who read their Bibles in
their tents, and go into battle with a prayer
in their hearts. I always seem to have
known," she said, "that he would fondle no
grey beard."
"Madame," 1 said, "what should I be but
Kerry to my father's friends!"
It seemed to me that I must know her
because of her proud high face, and her
222
Destiny
eyes of a great lady, but the title of Clontarf
made little impress on my brain. Our Irish
titles have become so hawked and shop-
worn that the most hallowed names in Ire-
land may be borne by a porter brewer or
former soap boiler. O'Conor Don and
MacCarthy More mean so much more to
us than the Duke of This or the Marquis
of There, now the politics have so muddled
chivalry. We may resent the presentation of
this title or that to a foreigner, but what
can you do.? The loyalty of the Northern
Irishman to the Crown is a loyalty of head
and not of heart. Out of our Northern
country came the United Men, if you
remember. But for whom should our hearts
beat faster .f^ The Stuarts were never fond
of us, and the Prince of Orange came over
to us, talked a deal about liberty, was with
us at a few battles, and went off to grow
asparagus in England. It is so long since
O'Neill and O'Donnell sailed for Spain!
Who Lady Clontarf was I did not know.
My uncle Valentine is so offhand in his
presentations. Were you to come on him
closeted with a heavenly visitant he would
just say: "Kerry, the Angel Gabriel.'*
Though as to what his Angelicness was
doing with my uncle Valentine, you would
be left to surmise. My uncle Valentine will
tel you just as much as he feels you ought
to know and no more — a quality that stood
my uncle in good stead in the days when
he raced and bred horses for racing. I did
know one thing: Lady Clontarf was not
Irish. There is a feeling of kindness between
all us Irish that we recognise without speak-
ing. One felt courtesy, gravity, dignity in
her, but not that quality that makes your
troubles another Irish person's troubles, if
only for the instant. Nor was she English.
One felt her spiritual roots went too deep
for that. Nor had she that brilliant armour
Bay 223
of the Latin. Her speech was the ordinary
speech of a gentlewoman, unaccented. Yet
that remark about knowing my father
would never fondle a grey beard!
Who she was and all about her I knew
I would find out later from my dear aunt
Jenepher. But about the old drawing-room
of Destiny there was a strange air of
formality. My uncle Valentine is most
courteous, but to-night he was courtly. He
was like some Hungarian or Russian noble
welcoming an empress. There was an air
of deference about my dear aunt Jenepher
that informed me that Lady Clontarf was
very great indeed. Whom my aunt Jenepher
likes is lovable, and whom she respects is
clean and great. But the most extraordinary
part of the setting was our butler James
Carabine. He looked as if royalty were pres-
ent, and I began to say to myself: "By damn,
but royalty is! Lady Clontarf is only a
racing name. I know that there's a queen
or princess in Germany who's held by the
Jacobites to be Queen of England. Can it
be herself that's in it ? It sounds impossible,
but sure there's nothing impossible where
my uncle Valentine's concerned."
At dinner the talk turned on racing, and
my uncle Valentine inveighed bitterly
against the new innovations on the track;
the starting gate, and the new seat in-
troduced by certain American jockeys, the
crouch now recognised as orthodox in flat-
racing. As to the value of the starting gate
my uncle was open to conviction. He re-
cognised how unfairly the apprentice was
treated by the crack jockey with the old
method of the flag, but he dilated on his
favourite theme: that machinery was the
curse of man. All these innovations —
"But it isn't an innovation, sir. The
Romans used it."
224 Donn
"YouVe a liar!'* said my uncle Valentine.
My uncle Valentine, or any other Irish-
man for the matter of that, only means that
he doesn't believe you. There is a wide
difterence.
"I think I'm right, sir. The Romans used
it for tlieir chariot races. They dropped the
barrier instead of raising it." A tag of my
classics came back to me, as tags will. "Re-
pagtila suhrnittuntur, Pausanias writes."
'Tausanias, begob!" My uncle Valentine
was visibly impressed.
But as to the new seat he was adamant.
I told him competent judges had placed it
about seven pounds' advantage to the horse.
"There is only one place on a horse's
back for a saddle," said my uncle Valentine.
*'The shorter your leathers, Kerry, the less
you know about your mount. You are only
aware whether or not he is winning. With
the ordinary seat, you know whether he is
lazy, and can make proper use of your spur.
You can stick to his head and help him."
"Races are won with that seat, sir."
"Be damned to that!" said my uncle
Valentine. "If the horse is good enough,
he'll win with the rider facing his tail."
"But we are boring you, Madame," I
said, "with our country talk of horses."
"There are three things that are never
boring to see: a swift swimmer swimming,
a young girl dancing, and a young horse
running. And three things that are never
tiring to speak of: God, and love, and the
racing of horses."
"A \ushto jukel is also rin\eno, mi penl^
suddenly spoke our butler, James Carabine.
"Dabla, James Carabine, you roller like a
didakai. A ju\€l to catch hanangreT And
Lady Clontarf laughed. "What in all the
tern is as din\eno as a \ushti-di\in grai?"
"A tatsheno ju\el, mi pen, like Rory
Bosville's," James Carabine evidently stood
Byrne
his ground, "that noshered the Waterloo
Cup tlirough wajro bo\r
"Avali! You are right, James Carabine."
And then she must have seen my astonished
face, for she laughed, that small golden
laughter that was like the ringing of an
acolyte's bell. "Are you surprised to hear me
speak the tau/lo tshib, the black language,
Kerry ? I am a gypsy woman."
"Lady Clontarf, Mister Kerry," said
James Carabine, "is saying there is nothing
in the world like a fine horse. I told her
a fine greyhound is a good thing too. Like
Rory Bosville's, that should have won the
Waterloo Cup in Princess Dagmar's year."
"Lady Clontarf wants to talk to you about
a horse, Kerry," said my uncle Valentine.
"So if you would like us to go into the gun-
room, Jenepher, instead of the withdrawing
room while you play — "
"May I not hear about the horse too.f^"
asked my aunt Jenepher.
"My very, very dear," said the gypsy lady
to my blind aunt Jenepher, "I would wish
you to, for where you are sitting, there a
blessing will be."
My uncle Valentine had given up race
horses for as long as I can remember. Ex-
cept with Limerick Pride, he had never had
any luck, and so he had quitted racing as
an owner, and gone in for harness ponies,
of which, it is admitted, he bred and
showed the finest of their class. My own
two chasers, while winning many good
Irish races, were not quite up to Aintree
form, but in the last year I happened to
buy, for a couple of hundred guineas, a
handicap horse that had failed signally as
a three-year-old in classic races, and of
which a fashionable stable wanted to get
rid. It was Ducks and Drakes, by Drake's
Drum out of Little Duck, a beautifully
Destiny
shaped, dark grey horse, rather short in the
neck, but the English stable was convinced
he was a hack. However, as often happens,
with a change of trainers and jockeys.
Ducks and Drakes became a different horse
and won five good races, giving me so much
in hand that I was able to purchase for a
matter of nine hundred guineas a colt I was
optimistic about, a son of Saint Simon's.
Both horses were in training with Robinson
at the Curragh. And now it occurred to
me that the gypsy lady wanted to buy one
or the other of them. I decided beforehand
that it would be across my dead body.
"Would you be surprised," asked my
uncle Valentine, "to hear that Lady Clon-
tarf has a horse she expects to win the Derby
with?"
"I should be delighted, sir, if she did,"
I answered warily. There were a hundred
people who had hopes of their nominations
in the greatest of races.
"Kerry," the gypsy lady said quietly, "I
think I will win." She had a way of clearing
the air with her voice, with her eyes. What
was a vague hope now became an issue.
"What is the horse, Madame .f^"
"It is as yet unnamed, and has never run
as a two-year-old. It is a son of Irlandais,
who has sired many winners on the Con-
tinent, and who broke down sixteen years
ago in preparation for the Derby and was
sold to one of the Festetics. Its dam is Iseult
III, who won the Prix de Diane four years
ago."
"I know so little about Continental
horses," I explained.
"The strain is great-hearted, and with
the dam, strong as an oak tree. I am a gypsy
woman, and I know a horse, and I am an
old, studious woman," she said, and she
looked at her beautiful, unringed golden
hands, as if she were embarrassed, speaking
Bay 225
of something wc, not Romanies, could
hardly understand, "and I think I know
propitious hours and days."
"Where is he now, Madame?"
"He is at Dax, in the Basse-Pyrenees, with
Romany folk."
"Here's the whole thing in a nutshell,
Kerry: Lady Clontarf wants her colt trained
in Ireland. Do you think the old stables of
your grandfather are still good?"
"The best in Ireland, sir, but sure there 't
no horse been trained there for forty years,
barring jumpers."
"Are the gallops good?"
"Sure, you know yourself, sir, how good
they are. But you couldn't train without a
tiainer, and stable boys — "
"We'll come to that," said my uncle
Valentine. "Tell me, what odds will you
get against an unknown, untried horse in
the winter books?"
I thought for an instant. It had been
an exceptionally good year for two-year-
olds, the big English breeders' stakes having
been bitterly contested. Lord Shere had a
good horse; Mr. Paris a dangerous colt. I
should say there were fifteen good colts, if
they wintered well, two with outstanding
chances.
"I should say you could really write your
own ticket. The ring will be only too glad
to get money. There's so much up on Sir
James and Toison d'Or."
"To win a quarter-million pounds?"
asked my uncle Valentine.
"It would have to be done very carefully,
sir, here and there, in ponies and fifties and
hundreds, but I think between four and five
thousand pounds would do it."
"Now if this horse of Lady Clontarf 's
wins the Two Tliousand and the Derby,
and the Saint Leger — "
Something in my face must have shown
226 Donn
a lively distaste for the company of lunatics,
for James Carabine spoke quietly from the
door by which he was standing.
''Will your young Honour be easy, and
listen to your uncle and my lady."
My uncle Valentine is most grandiose,
and though he has lived in epic times, a
giant among giants, his schemes are too
big for practical business days. And I was
beginning to think that the gypsy lady,
for all her beauty and dignity, was but an
old woman crazed by gambling and tarot
cards, but James Carabine is so wise, so
beautifully sane, facing all events, spiritual
and material, foursquare to the wind.
" — what would he command in stud
fees?" continued quietly my uncle Valen-
tine.
"If he did this tremendous triple thing,
sir, five hundred guineas would not be
exorbitant."
"I am not asking you out of idle curiosity,
Kerry, or for information," said my uncle
Valentine. "I merely wish to know if the
ordinary brain arrives at these conclusions
of mine; if they are, to use a word, of Mr.
Thackeray's, apparent."
"I quite understand, sir," I said politely.
"And now," said my uncle Valentine,
"whom would you suggest to come to
Destiny Bay as trainer?"
"None of the big trainers will leave their
stables to come here, sir. And the small
ones I don't know sufficiently. If Sir Arthur
Pollexfen were still training, and not so
old-"
"Sir Arthur Pollexfen is not old," said my
uncle Valentine. "He cannot be more than
seventy-two or seventy-three."
"But at that age you cannot expect a man
to turn out at five in the morning and over-
see gallops."
"How litde you know Mayo men," said
Byrne
my uncle Valentine. "And Sir Arthur with
all his truimphs never won a Derby. He
will come."
"Even at that, sir, how are you going to
get a crack jockey? Most big owners have
first or second call on them. And the great
free lances, you cannot engage one of those
and ensure secrecy."
"That," said my uncle Valentine, "is al-
ready arranged. Lady Clontarf has a
Gitano, or Spanish gypsy in whom her con-
fidence is boundless. And now," said my
uncle Valentine, "we come to the really
diplomatic part of the proceeding. Trial
horses are needed, so that I am commis-
sioned to approach you with delicacy and
ask you if you will bring up your two ex-
cellent horses Ducks and Drakes and the
Saint Simon colt and help train Lady
Clontarf's horse. I don't see why you should
object."
To bring up the two darlings of my heart,
and put them under the care of a trainer
who had won the Gold Cup at Ascot fifty
years before, and hadn't run a horse for
twelve years, and have them ridden by this
Gitano or Spanish gypsy, as my uncle
called him; to have them used as trial horses
to this colt which might not be good
enough for a starter's hack. Ah, no! Not
damned likely. I hardened my heart against
the pleading gaze of James Carabine.
"Will you or won't you?" roared my
uncle diplomatically.
My aunt Jenepher laid down the lace
she was making, and reaching across, her
fingers c^aught my sleeve and ran down to
my hand, and her hand caught mine.
"Kerry will," she said.
So that was decided.
"Kerry," said my uncle Valentine, "will
you see Lady Clontarf home?"
Destiny
I was rather surprised. I had thought she
was staying with us. And I was a bit
bothered, for it is not hospitaHty to allow
the visitor to Destiny to put up at the local
pub. But James Carabine whispered : " 'Tis
on the downs she's staying, Master Kerry,
in her own great van with four horses."
It was difficult to believe that the tall grace-
ful lady in the golden and red Spanish
shawl, with the quiet speech of our own
people, was a roaming gypsy, with the
whole world as her home.
"Good night, Jenepher. Good night,
Valentine. Boshto do\, good luck, James
Carabine!"
"Boshto do\, mi pen. Good luck, sister."
Wc went out into the October night of
the full moon — the hunter's moon — and
away from the great fire of turf and bog-
wood in our drawing-room the night was
vital with an electric cold. One could sense
the film of ice in the bogs, and the drum-
ming of- snipe's wings, disturbed by some
roving dog, come to our ears. So bright was
the moon that each whitewashed apple tree
stood out clear in the orchard, and as we
took the road toward Grey River, we could
see a barkentine offshore, with sails of
polished silver — some boat from Bilbao
probably, making for the Clyde, in the
daytime a scrubby ore carrier but to-night
a ship out of some old sea story, as of
Magellan, or our own Saint Brendan:
'Teach air muir lionadh gealach huidhe
mar or'/ she quoted in Gaelic; "See on the
filling sea the full moon yellow as gold. . . .
It is full moon and full tide, Kerry; if you
make a wish, it will come true."
"I wish you success in the Derby, Ma-
dame."
Ahead of us down the road moved a little
group to the sound of fiddle and mouth
organ. It was the Romany body-guard ready
Bay 2rj
to protect their chieftainess on her way
home.
"You mean that, I know, but you dislike
the idea. Why?"
"Madame," I said, "if you can read my
thoughts as easily as that, it's no more
impertinent to speak than think. I have
heard a lot about a great colt to-night, and
of his chance for the greatest race in the
world, and that warms my heart. But I
have heard more about money, and that
chills me."
"I am so old, Kerry, that the glory of
winning the Derby means little to me. Do
you know how old I am? I am six years
short of an hundred old."
"Then the less — " I began, and stopped
short, and could have chucked myself over
the cliif for my unpardonable discourtesy.
"Then the less reason for my wanting
money," the old lady said. "Is not that so?"
"Exactly, Madame."
"Kerry," she said, "does my name mean
anything to you?"
"It has bothered me all evening. Lady
Clontarf, I am so sorry my father's son
should appear to you so rude and ignorant
a lout."
"Mifanwy, Countess Clontarf and Kin-
cora.
I gaped like an idiot. "The line of great
Brian Boru. But I thought — "
"Did you really ever think of it, Kerry?"
"Not really, Madame," I said. "It's so long
ago, so wonderful. It's like that old city
they speak of in the country tales, under
Ownaglass, the grey river, with its spires
and great squares. It seems to me to have
vanished like that, in rolling clouds of
thunder."
"The last O'Neill has vanished, and the
last Plantagenet. But great Brian's strain
remains. When I married my lord," she
228 Donn
said quiedy, "it was in a troubled time. Our
ears had not forgotten the musketry of
Waterloo, and England was still shaken by
fear of the Emperor, and poor Ireland was
hurt and w^ounded. As you know, Kerry,
no peer of the older faith sat in College
Green. It is no new thing to ennoble, and
steal an ancient name. Pitt and Napoleon
passed their leisure hours at it. So that of
O'Briens, Kerry, sirred and lorded, there
are a score, but my lord was Earl of Clon-
tarf and Kincora since before the English
came.
"If my lord was of the great blood of
Kincora, myself was not lacking in blood.
We Romanies are old, Kerry, so old that
no man knows our beginning, but that we
came from the uplands of India centuries
before history. We are a strong, vital race,
and WT remain with our language, our own
customs, our own laws until this day. And
to certain families of us, the Romanies all
over the world do reverence, as to our own,
the old Lovells. There are three Lovells,
Kerry, the dinelo or foolish Lovells, the
gozvero or cunning Lovells, and the puro
Lovells, the old Lovells. I am of the
old Lovells. My father was the great Mairik
Lovell. So you see I am of great stock too."
"Dear Madame, one has only to see you
to know that."
"My lord had a small place left him near
the Village of Swords, and it was near
there I met him. He wished to buy a horse
from my father Mairik, a stallion my father
had brought all the way from the Nejd in
Arabia. My lord could not buy that horse.
But when I married my lord, it was part of
my dowry, that and two handfuls of uncut
Russian emeralds, and a chest of gold
coins, Russian and Indian and Turkish
coins, all gold. So I did not come empty-
handed to my lord."
Byrne
"Madame, do you wish to tell me this ?"
"I wish to tell it to you, Kerry, because
I want you for a friend to my little people,
the sons of my son's son. You must know
everything about friends to understand
them.
"My lord was rich only in himself and
in his ancestry. But with the great Arab
stallion and the emeralds and the gold coins
we were well. We did a foolish thing,
Kerry; we went to London. My lord wished
it, and his wishes were my wishes, although
something told me we should not have
gone. In London I made my lord sell the
great Arab. He did not wish to, because
it came with me, nor did I wish to, because
my father had loved it so, but I made him
sell it. All the Selim horses of to-day are
descended from him, Sheykh Selim.
"My lord loved horses, Kerry. He knew
horses, but he had no luck. Newmarket
Heath is a bad spot for those out of luck.
And my lord grew worried. When one is
worried, Kerry, the heart contracts a little, —
is it not so.f^ Or don't you know yet.f^ Also
another thing bothered my lord. He was
with English people, and English people
have their codes and ordinances. They are
good people, Kerry, very honest. They go
to churches, and like sad songs, but whether
they believe in God, or whether they have
hearts or have no hearts, I do not know.
Each thing they do by rote and custom,
and they are curious in this : they will make
excuses for a man who has done a great
crime, but no excuses for a man who
neglects a trivial thing. An eccentricity of
dress is not forgiven. An eccentric is an
outsider. So that English are not good for
Irish folk.
"My own people," she said proudly, "are
simple people, kindly and loyal as your
family know. A marriage to them is a deep
Destiny
thing, not the selfish love of one person
for another, but involving many factors. A
man v^ill say: Mifanw^y Lovell's father
saved my honour once. What can I do for
Mifanw^y Lovell and Mifanwy Lovell's
man? And the Lovells said w^hen we were
married: Brothers, the gawjo rai, the
foreign gentleman, may not understand the
gypsy way, that our sorrows are his sorrows,
and our joys his, but we understand that
his fights are our fights, and his interests
the interests of the Lovell Clan.
"My people were always about my lord,
and my lord hated it. In our London house
in the morning, there were always gypsies
waiting to tell my lord of a great fight
coming off quietly on Epsom Downs, which
it might interest him to see, or of a good
horse to be bought cheaply, or some news
of a dog soon to run in a coursing match for
a great stake, and of the dog's excellences or
his defects. They wanted no money. They
only wished to do him a kindness. But my
lord was embarrassed, until he began to
loathe the sight of a gypsy neckerchief.
Also, in the race courses, in the betting ring
where my lord would be, a gypsy would
pay hard-earned entrance money to tell my
lord quietly of something they had noticed
that morning in the gallops, or horses to be
avoided in betting, or of neglected horses
which would win. All kindnesses to my
lord. But my lord was with fashionable
English folk, who do not understand one's
having a strange friend. Their uplifted eye-
brows made my lord ashamed of the poor
Romanies. These things are things you
might laugh at, with laughter like sunshine,
but there would be clouds in your heart.
"The end came at Ascot, Kerry, where
the young queen was, and the Belgian king,
and the great nobles of the court. Into the
paddock came one of the greatest of gypsies,
Bay 229
Tyso Hernc, who had gone before my mar-
riage with a great draft of Norman trotting
horses to Mexico, and came back with a
squadron of ponies, suitable for polo. Tyso
was a vast man, a pawni Romany, a fair
gypsy. His hair was red, and his moustache
was long and curling, like a Hungarian
pandour's. He had a flaunting dihlo of fine
yellow silk about his neck, and the buttons
on his coat were gold Indian mohurs, and
on his bell-shaped trousers were braids of
silver bells, and the spurs on his Welling-
tons were fine silver, and his hands were
covered with rings, Kerry, with stones in
them such as even the young queen did not
have. It was not vulgar ostentation. It was
just that Tyso felt rich and merry, and no
stone on his hand was as fine as his heart.
"When he saw me he let a roar out of
him that was like the roar of the ring when
the horses are coming in to the stretch.
" 'Before God,' he shouted, 'it's Mifanwy
Lovell.' And, though I am not a small
woman, Kerry, he tossed me in the air, and
caught me in the air. And he laughed and
kissed me, and I laughed and kissed him, so
happy was I to see great Tyso once more,
safe from over the sea.
" 'Go get your rom, mi tshai, your hus-
band, my lass, and we'll go to the \itshima
and have a jeraboam of Champagne
wine.' "
"But I saw my lord walk ofif with thunder
in his face, and all the English folk staring
and some women laughing. So I said: 1
will go with you alone, Tyso.' For Tyso
Heme had been my father's best friend
and my mother's cousin, and had held me
as a baby, and no matter how he looked, or
who laughed, he was well come for me.
"Of what my lord said, and of what I
said in rebuttal, we will not speak. One
says foolish things in anger, but, foolish or
230 Donn
not, they leave scars. For out of the mouth
come things forgotten, things one thinks
dead. But before the end of the meeting,
I went to Tyso Heme's van. He was braid-
ing a whip with fingers hght as a woman's,
and when he saw me he spoke quietly.
" 'Is all well with thee, Mifanwy V
" 'Nothing is well with me, father's
friend.'
"And so I went back to my people, and
I never saw my lord any more."
We had gone along until in the distance
I could see the gypsy iire, and turning the
headland wx saw the light on Farewell
Point. A white flash; a second's rest; a red
flash; three seconds occultation; then white
and red again. There is something hearten-
ing and brave in Farewell Light. Ireland
keeps watch over her share of the Atlantic
sea.
"When I left my lord, I was with child,
and when I was delivered of him, and the
child weaned and strong, I sent him to my
lord, for every man wants his man child,
and every family its heir. But when he was
four and twenty he came back to me, for
the roving gypsy blood and the fighting
Irish blood were too much for him. He
was never Earl of Clontarf. He died while
my lord still lived. He married a Heme,
a grandchild of Tyso, a brave golden girl.
And he got killed charging in the Balkan
Wars.
"Niall's wife — my son's name was Niall —
understood, and when young Niall was old
enough, we sent him to my lord. My lord
was old at this time, older than his years,
and very poor. But of my share of money
he would have nothing. My lord died when
Niall's Niall was at school, so the little lad
became Earl of Clontarf and Kincora. I
saw to it he had sufficient money, but he
married no rich woman. He married a poor
Byrne
Irish girl, and by her had two children,
Niall and Alick. He was interested in
horses, and rode well, my English friends
tell me. But mounted on a brute in the
Punchestown races, he made a mistake at
the stone wall. He did not know the horse
very well. So he let it have its head at the
stone wall. It threw its head up, took the
jump by the roots, and so Niall's Niall was
killed. His wife, the little Irish girl, turned
her face away from life and died.
"The boys are fifteen and thirteen now,
and soon they will go into the world. I
want them to have a fair chance, and it is
for this reason I wish them to have money.
I have been rich and then poor, and then
very rich and again poor, and rich again
and now poor. But if this venture succeeds,
the boys will be all right."
"Ye-s," I said.
"You don't seem very enthusiastic,
Kerry."
"We have a saying," I told her, "that
money won from a bookmaker is only lent."
"If you were down on a race meeting
and on the last race of the last day you
won a little, what would you say.^^"
"I'd say I only got a little of my own
back."
"Then we only get a little of our own
back over the losses of a thousand years."
We had come now to the encampment.
Around the great fire were tall swarthy
men with coloured neckchiefs, who seemed
more reserved, cleaner than the English
gypsy. They rose quietly as the gypsy lady
came. The great spotted Dalmatian dogs
rose too. In the half light the picketed
horses could be seen, quiet as trees.
"This is the Younger of Destiny Bay,"
said the old lady, "who is kind enough to
be our friend."
Destiny
"Sa shan, rair tliey spoke with quiet
courtesy. "How are you, sir?"
Lady Clontarfs maid hurried forward
with a wrap, scolding, and speaking Eng-
Hsh with beautiful courtesy. "You are dread-
ful, sister. You go walking the roads at
night like a courting girl in spring. Gentle-
man, you are wrong to keep the rawnee
out, and she an old woman and not well.'*
"Supplistia," Lady Clontarf chided, "you
have no more manners than a growling
dog."
"I am the rawnee's watchdog," the girl
answered.
"Madame, your maid is right. I will go
now."
"Kerry," she stopped me, "will you be
friends with my little people .f^"
"I will be their true friend," I promised,
and I kissed her hand.
"God bless you!" she said. And "\ushto
bo\, rair the gypsies wished me. "Good
luck, sir!" And I left the camp for my
people's house. The hunter's moon was
dropping toward the edge of the world,
and the light on Farewell Point flashed
seaward its white and red, and as I walked
along, I noticed that a wind from Ireland
had sprung up, and the Bilbao boat was
bowling along nor'east on the starboard
tack. It semed to me an augury.
In those days, before my aunt Jenepher's
marriage to Patrick Heme, the work of
Destiny Bay was divided in this manner:
my dear aunt Jenepher was, as was right,
supreme in the house. My uncle Valentine
planned and superintended the breeding of
the harness ponies, and sheep, and black
Dexter cattle which made Destiny Bay so
feared at the Dublin Horse Show and at
the Bath and West. My own work was the
farms. To me fell the task of preparing the
Bay 231
stables and training grounds for Lady Clon-
tarfs and my own horses. It was a relief
and an adventure to give up thinking of
turnips, wheat, barley, and seeds, and to
examine the downs for training ground. In
my great grandfather's time, in pre-Union
days, many a winner at the Curragh had
been bred and trained at Destiny Bay. The
soil of the downs is chalky, and the matted
roots of the woven herbage have a certain
give in them in the driest weather. I found
out my great-grandfather's mile and a
half, and two miles and a half with a turn
and shorter gallops of various gradients.
My grandfather had used them as a young
man, but mainly for hunters, horses which
he sold for the great Spanish and Austrian
regiments. But to my delight the stables
were as good as ever. Covered with reed
thatch, they required few repairs. The floors
were of chalk, and the boxes beautifully
ventilated. There were also great tanks for
rainwater, which is of all water the best for
horses in training. There were also a few
stalls for restless horses. I was worried a
little about lighting, but my uncle Valentine
told me that Sir Arthur Pollexfen allowed
no artificial lights where he trained. Horses
went to bed with the fowls and got up at
cockcrow.
My own horses I got from Robinson
without hurting his feelings. "It's this way,
Robinson," I told him. "We're trying to
do a crazy thing at Destiny, and I'm not
bringing them to another trainer. I'm bring-
ing another trainer there. I can tell you
no more."
"Not another word, Mr. Kerry. Bring
them back when you want to. I'm sorry
to say good-bye to the wee colt. But I wish
you luck."
We bought three more horses, and a
horse for Aim-DoUy. So that with the six
232
Donn
we had a rattling good little stable. When
I saw Sir Arthur Pollcxfen, my heart sank
a little, for he seemed so much out of a
former century. Small, ruddy-cheeked, with
the white hair of a bishop, and a bishop's
courtesy, I never thought he could run a
stable. I thought, perhaps, he had grown
too old and had been thinking for a long
time now of the Place whither he was
going, and that we had brought him back
from his thoughts and he had left his
vitality behind. His own servant came with
him to Destiny Bay, and though we wished
to have him in the house with us, yet he
preferred to stay in a cottage by the stables.
I don't know what there was about his
clothes, but they were all of an antique
though a beautiful cut. He never wore
riding breeches but trousers of a bluish cloth
and strapped beneath his varnished boots.
A flowered waistcoat with a satin stock, a
short covert coat, a grey bowler hat and
gloves. Always there was a freshly cut
flower in his buttonhole, which his servant
got every evening from the greenhouses at
Destiny Bay, and kept overnight in a glass
of water into which the least drop of whis-
key had been poured. I mention this as
extraordinary, as most racing men will not
wear flowers. They believe flowers bring
bad luck, though how the superstition arose
I cannot tell. His evening trousers also
buckled under his shoes, or rather half
Wellingtons, such as army men wear, and
though there was never a crease in them
there was never a wrinkle. He would never
drink port after dinner when the ladies had
left, but a little whiskey punch which
James Carabine would compose for him.
Compared to the hard shrewd-eyed trainers
I knew, this bland, soft-spoken old gentle-
man filled me with misgiving.
Byrne
I got a different idea of the old man the
first morning I went out to the gallops. The
sun had hardly risen when the old gentle-
man appeared, as beautifully turned out as
though he were entering the Show Ring at
Ballsbridge. His servant held his horse, a
big grey, while he swung into the saddle
as light as a boy. His hack was feeling good
that morning, and he and I went off toward
the training ground at a swinging canter,
the old gentleman half standing in his stir-
rups, with a light firm grip of his knees,
riding as Cossacks do, his red terrier gallop-
ing behind him. When we settled down to
walk he told me the pedigree of his horse,
descended through Matchem and Whale-
bone from Oliver Cromwell's great charger
The White Turk, or Place's White Turk, as
it was called from the Lord Protector's stud
manager. To hear him follow the intricacies
of breeding was a revelation. Then I under-
stood what a great horseman he was. On
the training ground he was like a marshal
commanding an army, such respect did
every one accord him. The lads perched on
the horses' withers, his head man, the
grooms, all watched the apple-ruddy face,
while he said little or nothing. He must
have had eyes in the back of his head,
though. For when a colt we had brought
from Mr. Gubbins, a son of Galtee More's,
started lashing out and the lad up seemed
like taking a toss, the old man's voice came
low and sharp: "Don't fall off, boy." And
the boy did not fall off. The red terrier
watched the trials with a keen eye, and I
believe honestly that he knew as much
about horses as any one of us and certainly
more than any of us about his owner. When
my lovely Ducks and Drakes went out at
the lad's call to beat the field by two lengths
over five furlongs, the dog looked up at Sir
Destiny
Arthur and Sir Arthur looked back at the
dog, and what they thought toward each
other, God knoweth.
I expected when we rode away that the
old gentleman would have some word to
say about my horses, but coming home,
his remarks were of the country. "Your
Derry is a beautiful country, young Mister
Kerry," he said, "though it would be trea-
son to say that in my own country of
Mayo." Of my horses not a syllable.
He could be the most silent man I have
ever known, though giving the illusion of
keeping up a conversation. You could talk
to him, and he would smile, and nod at
the proper times, as though he were devour-
ing every word you said. In the end you
thought you had a very interesting con-
versation. But as to whether he had even
heard you, you were never sure. On the
other hand when he wished to speak, he
spoke to the point and beautifully. Our
bishop, on one of his pastoral visitations, if
that be the term, stayed at Destiny Bay, and
because my uncle Cosimo is a bishop too,
and because he felt he ought to do some-
thing for our souls he remonstrated with us
for starting our stable. My uncle Valentine
was livid, but said nothing, for no guest
must be contradicted in Destiny Bay.
"For surely, Sir Valentine, no man of
breeding can mingle with the rogues, cut-
purses and their womenfolk who infest
race courses, drunkards, bawds and com-
mon gamblers, without lowering himself
to some extent to their level," his Lordship
purred. "Yourself, one of the wardens of
Irish chivalry, must give an example to the
common people."
"Your Lordship," broke in old Sir Arthur
Pollexfen, "is egregiously misinformed. In
all periods of the world's history, eminent
personages have concerned themselves with
Bay 233
the racing of horses. We read of Philip of
Maccdon, that while campaigning in Asia
Minor, a courier brought him news of two
events, of the birth of his son Alexander
and of the winning, by his favourite horse,
of the chief race at Athens, and we may
reasonably infer that his joy over the win-
ning of the race was equal to if not greater
than that over the birth of Alexander. In
the life of Charles the Second, the traits
which do most credit to that careless
monarch are his notable and gentlemanly
death and his affection for his great race
horse Old Rowley. Your Lordship is, I am
sure," said Sir Arthur, more blandly than
any ecclesiastic could, "too sound a Greek
scholar not to remember the epigrams of
Maecius and Philodemus, which show what
interest these antique poets took in the
racing of horses. And coming to present
times, your Lordship must have heard that
his Majesty (whom God preserve ! ) has won
two Derbies, once with the leased horse
Minoru, and again with his own great Per-
simmon. The premier peer of Scotland, the
Duke of Hamilton, Duke of Chastellerault
in France, Duke of Brandon in England,
hereditary prince of Baden, is prouder of
his fine mare Eau de Vie than of all his
titles. As to the Irish families, the Persses
of Galway, the Dawsons of Dublin, and my
own, the Pollexfens of Mayo, have always
been interested in the breeding and racing
of horses. And none of these — my punch,
if you please, James Carabine! — are, as
your Lordship puts it, drunkards, bawds,
and common gamblers. I fear your Lord-
ship has been reading — " and he cocked his
eye, bright as a wren's, at the bishop,
"religious publications of the sensational
and morbid type.'*
It was all I could do to keep from leap-
234 Donn
ing on the table and giving three loud
cheers for the County of Mayo.
Now, on those occasions, none too rare,
when my uncle Valentine and I diflfered on
questions of agricultural economy, or of
national polity, or of mere faith and morals,
he poured torrents of invective over my
head, which mattered little. But when he
was really aroused to bitterness he called
me "modern." And by modern my uncle
Valentine meant the quality inherent in
brown buttoned boots, in white waistcoats
worn with dinner jackets, in nasty little
motor cars — in fine, those things before
which the angels of God recoil in horror.
While I am not modern in that sense, I am
modern in this, that I like to see folk getting
on with things. Of Lady Clontarf and of
Irlandais colt, I heard no more. On the
morning after seeing her home I called over
to the caravan but it was no longer there.
There was hardly a trace of it, I found a
broken fern and a slip of oaktree, the
gypsy patteran. But what it betokened or
whither it pointed I could not tell. I had
gone to no end of trouble in getting the
stables and training grounds ready, and Sir
Arthur Pollexfen had been brought out of
his retirement in the County of Mayo. But
still no word of the horse. I could see my
uncle Valentine and Sir Arthur taking their
disappointment bravely, if it never arrived,
and murmuring some courteous platitude,
out of the reign of good Queen Victoria,
that it was a lady's privilege to change her
mind. That might console them in their
philosophy, but it would only make me
hot with rage. For to me there is no sex in
people of standards. They do not let one
another down.
Then one evening the horse arrived.
It arrived at sundown in a large van drawn
Byrne
by four horses, a van belonging evidently
to some circus. It was yellow and covered
with paintings of nymphs being wooed by
swains, in clothes hardly fitted to agricul-
tural pursuits: of lions of terrifying aspect
being put through their paces by a trainer
of an aspect still more terrifying: of an
Indian gentleman with a vast turban and
a small loincloth playing a penny whistle to
a snake that would have put the heart
crosswise in Saint Patrick himself; of a most
adipose lady in tights swinging from a ring
while the husband and seven sons hung on
to her like bees in a swarm. Floridly painted
over the van was "Arsene Bombaudiac,
Prop., Bayonne." The whole added no dig-
nity to Destiny Bay, and if some sorceress
had disclosed to Mr. Bombaudiac of Bay-
onne that he was about to lose a van by
fire at low tide on the beach of Destiny in
Ireland within forty-eight hours — ^The
driver was a burly gypsy, while two of the
most utter scoundrels I have ever laid eyes
on sat beside him on the wide seat.
"Do you speak English.'^" I asked the
driver.
"Yes, sir," he answered, "I am a Petu-
lengro."
"Which of these two beauties beside you
is the jockey.f^'*
"Neither, sir. These two are just gypsy
fighting men. The jockey is inside with the
horse."
My uncle Valentine came down stroking
his great red beard. He seemed fascinated
by the pictures on the van. "Wjhat your
poor aunt Jenepher, Kerry," he said^
"misses by being blind!"
"What she is spared, sir! Boy," I called
one of the servants, "go get Sir Arthur
Pollexfen. Where do you come from?"
I asked the driver.
"From Dax, sir, in the South of France."
Destiny
"You're a liar," I said. "Your horses are
half-bred Clydesdale. There's no team like
that in the South of France."
"We came to Dieppe with an attelage
basque, six yoked oxen. But I was told they
would not be allowed in England, so I
telegraphed our chief, Piramus Petulengro,
to have a team at Newhaven. So I am not a
liar, sir."
"I am sorry."
"Sir, that is all right."
Sir Arthur Pollexfen came down from
where he had been speaking to my aunt
Jenepher. I could see he was tremendously
excited, because he walked more slowly
than was usual, spoke with more delibera-
tion. He winced a little as he saw the van.
But he was of the old heroic school. He
said nothing.
"I think. Sir Valentine," he said, "we
might have the horse out."
"Ay, we might as well know the worst,"
said my uncle Valentine.
A man jumped from the box, and swung
the crossbar up. The door opened and into
the road stepped a small man in dark
clothes. Never on this green earth of God's
have I seen such dignity. He was dressed
in dark clothes with a wide dark hat, and
his face was brown as soil. White starched
cuffs covered half of his hands. He took
off his hat and bowed first to my uncle
Valentine, then to Sir Arthur, and to myself
last. His hair was plastered down on his
forehead, and the impression you got was
of an ugly rugged face, with piercing black
eyes. He seemed to say: "Laugh, if you
dare!" But laughter was the furthest thing
from us, such tremendous masculinity did
the small man have. He looked at us search-
ingly, and I had the feeling that if he didn't
like us, for two pins he would have the bar
across the van door again and be off with
Bay 235
the horse. Then he turned and spoke gut-
turally to some one inside.
A boy as rugged as himself, in a Basque
cap and with a Basque sash, led first a small
donkey round as a barrel out of the out-
rageous van. One of the gypsies took it,
and the next moment the boy led out the
Irlandais colt.
He came out confidently, quietly, ap-
proaching gentlemen as a gentleman, a
beautiful brown horse, small, standing per-
fectly. I had just one glance at the sound
strong legs and the firm ribs, before his
head caught my eye. The graceful neck,
the beautiful small muzzle, the gallant eyes.
In every inch of him you could see breed-
ing. While Sir Arthur was examining his
hocks, and my uncle Valentine was standing
weightily considering strength of lungs and
heart, my own heart went out to the lovely
eyes that seemed to ask: "Are these folk
friends?"
Now I think you could parade the Queen
of Sheba in the show ring before me with-
out extracting more than an offhand com-
pliment out of me, but there is something
about a gallant thoroughbred that makes
me sing. I can quite understand the trainer
who, pointing to Manifesto, said that if he
ever found a woman with a shape like that,
he'd marry her. So out of my heart through
my lips came the cry: ''Och, asthord" which
is, in our Gaelic, "Oh, my dear!"
The Spanish jockey, whose brown face
was . rugged and impassive as a Pyrenee,
looked at me, and broke into a wide, un-
derstanding smile.
"Si, si, Scflor," he uttered, ''si, sir
Never did a winter pass so merrily, so
advantageously at Destiny Bay. Usually
there is fun enough with the hunting, but
with a racing stable in winter there is always
236 Donn
anxiety. Is there a suspicion of a cough in
the stables ? Is the ground too hard for gal-
lops ? Will snow come and hold the gallops
up for a week? Fortunately we are right
on the edge of the great Atlantic drift, and
you can catch at times the mild amazing
atmosphere of the Caribbean. While Scot-
land sleeps beneath its coverlet of snow,
and England shivers in its ghastly fog, we
on the northeast seaboard of Ireland go
through a winter that is short as a mid-
summer night in Lofoden. The trees have
hardly put off their gold and brown until
we perceive their cheeping green. And one
soft day we say: "Soon on that bank will
be the fairy gold of the primrose." And be-
hold, while you are looking the primrose
is there!
Each morning at sun-up, the first string
of horses were out. Quietly as a general offi-
cer reviewing a parade old Sir Arthur sat
on his grey horse, his red dog beside him,
while Geraghty, his head man, galloped
about with his instructions. Hares bolted
from their forms in the grass. The sun
rolled away the mists from the blue moun-
tains of Donegal. At the starting gate,
which Sir Arthur had set up, the red-faced
Irish boys steered their mounts from a walk
toward the tapes. A pull at the lever and
they were off. The old man seemed to no-
tice everything. "Go easy, boy, don't force
that horse!" His low voice would carry
across the downs. "Don't lag there^ Murphy,
ride him!" And when the gallop was done,
he would trot across to the horses, his red
dog trotting beside him, asking how Sars-
field went. Did Ducks and Drakes seem
interested? Did Rustum go up to his bit?
Then they were off at a slow walk toward
their sand bath, where they rolled like
dogs. Then the sponging and the rubbing,
and the fresh hay in the mangers kept as
Byrne
clean as a hospital. At eleven the second
string came out. At half -past three the lads
were called to their horses, and a quarter
of an hour's light walking was given to
them. At four. Sir Arthur made his "sta-
bles," questioning the lads in each detail
as to how the horses had fed, running his
hand over their legs to feel for any heat
in the joints that might betoken trouble.
Small as our stable was, I doubt if there
was one in Great Britain and Ireland to
compare with it in each fitting and neces-
sity for training a race horse. Sir Arthur
pinned his faith to old black tartar oats,
of about forty-two pounds to the bushel,
bran mashes with a little linseed, and sweet
old meadow hay.
The Irlandais colt went beautifully. The
Spanish jockey's small brother, Joselito,
usually rode it, while the jockey's self, whose
name we were told was Frasco, Frasco
Moreno — usually called, he told us, Don
Frasco — looked on. He constituted himself
a sort of sub-trainer for the colt, allowing
none else to attend to its feeding. The small
donkey was its invariable stable companion,
and had to be led out to exercise with it.
The donkey belonged to Joselito. Don
Frasco rode many trials on the other horses.
He might appear small standing, but -on
horseback he seemed a large man, so straight
did he sit in the saddle. The little boys rode
with a fairly short stirrup, but the gitano
scorned anything but the traditional seat.
He never seemed to move on a horse. Yet he
could do what he liked with it.
The Irlandais colt was at last named
Romany Baw, or "gypsy friend" in English,
as James Carabine explained to us, and
Lady Clontarf's colours registered, quar-
tered red and gold. When the winter lists
came out, we saw the horse quoted at a
hundred to one, and later at the call over
Destiny
of the Victoria Club, saw that price offered
but not taken. My uncle Valentine made a
journey to Dublin, to arrange for Lady
Clontarf s commission being placed, putting
it in the hands of a Derry man who had
become big in the affairs of Tattersall's.
What he himself and Sir Arthur Pollexfen
and the jockey had on I do not know, but
he arranged to place an hundred pounds of
mine, and fifty of Ann-Dolly's. As the
months went by, the odds crept down grad-
ually to thirty-three to one, stood there for
a while and went out to fifty. Meanwhile
Sir James became a sensational favourite at
fives, and Toison d'Or varied between tens
and one hundred to eight. Some news of
a great trial of Lord Shire's horse had leaked
out which accounted for the ridiculously
short price. But no word did or could get
out about Lady Clontarf's colt. The two
gypsy fighters from Dax patrolled Destiny
Bay, and God help any poor tipster or
wretched newspaper tout who tried to
plumb the mysteries of training. I honestly
believe a bar of iron and a bog hole would
have been his end.
The most fascinating figure in this crazy
world was the gypsy jockey. To see him talk
to Sir Arthur Pollexfen was a phenomenon.
Sir Arthur would speak in English and the
gypsy answer in Spanish, neither knowing
a word of the other's language, yet each
perfectly understanding the other. I must
say that this only referred to how a horse
ran, or how Romany Baw was feeding and
feeling. As to more complicated problems,
Ann-Dolly was called in, to translate his
Spanish.
"Ask him," said Sir Arthur, "has he ever
ridden in France?"
"Oiga, Vrasco'/ and Ann-Dolly would
burst into a torrent of gutturals.
''Si, si, Dona Anna!'
Bay 237
"Ask him has he got his clearance from
the Jockey Club of France?"
"Seguro, Don Arturol" And out of his
capacious pocket he extracted the French
Jockey Club's "character." They made a
picture I will never forget, the old horseman
ageing so gently, the vivid boyish beauty of
Ann-Dolly, and the overpowering dignity
and manliness of the jockey. Always, except
when he was riding or working at his anvil,
— for he was our smith too — he wore the
dark clothes, which evidently some village
tailor of the Pyrenees made for him — the
very short coat, the trousers tubed like ciga-
rettes, his stiff shirt with the vast cuffs. He
never wore a collar, nor a neckerchief. Al-
ways his back was fiat as the side of a house.
When he worked at the anvil, with his
young ruffian of a brother at the bellows,
he sang. He had shakes and grace notes
enough to make a thrush quit. Ann-Dolly
translated one of his songs for us.
No tengo padre ni madre . . ,
Que desgraciado soy yol
Soy como el arbol solo
Que echas frutas y no echa flor . . .
"He sings he has no father or mother.
How out of luck he is! He is like a lonely
tree, which bears the fruit and not the
flower."
"God bless my soul, Kerry," my uncle
was shocked. "The little man is homesick."
"No, no!" Ann-Dolly protested. "He is
very happy. That is why he sings a sad
song."
One of the reasons of the litde man's
happiness was the discovery of our national
game of handball. He strolled over to the
Irish Village and discovered the court back
of the Inniskillen Dragoon, that most no-
table of rural pubs. He was tremendously
excited, and getting some gypsy to translate
238 Donn
for him, challenged the local champion for
the stake of a barrel of porter. He made the
local champion look like a carthorse in the
Grand National. When it was told to me I
couldn't believe it. Ann-Dolly explained to
me that die great game of Basque country
was pelota.
"But don't they play pelota with a bas-
ket.?"
''Real pelota is h mains fines, *with the
hands naked.' "
"You mean Irish handball," I told her.
I regret that the population of Destiny
made rather a good thing out of Don
Frasco's prowess on the court, going from
village to village, and betting on a certain
win. The end was a match between Mick
Tierney, the Portrush Jarvey and the jockey.
The match was billed for the champion of
Ulster, and Don Frasco was put down on
the card, to explain his lack of English,
as Danny Frask, the Glenties Miracle, the
Glenties being a district of Donegal where
Erse is the native speech. The match was
poor, the Portrush Jarvey, after the first
game, standing and watching the ball hiss
past him with his eyes on his cheek bones.
All Donegal seemed to have turned out for
the fray. When the contest was over, a big
Glenties man pushed his way toward the
jockey.
"Dublin and London and New York are
prime cities," he chanted, "but Glenties is
truly magnificent. Kir do lauv anshin, a
railt na hooee, Tut your hand there, Star
of the North.' "
'Wo entiendo, senor^' said Don Frasco.
And with that the fight began.
James Carabine was quick enough to get
the jockey out of the court before he was
lynched. But Destiny Bay men, gypsies,
fishers, citizens of Derry, bookmakers and
their clerks and the fighting tribes of Done-
Byrne
gal went to it with a vengeance. Indeed,
according to experts, nothing like it, for
spirit or results, had been seen since or be-
fore the Prentice Boys had chased King
James (to whom God give his deserts!)
from Derry Walls. The removal of the
stimned and wounded from the courts drew
the attention of the police, for the fight
was continued in grim silence. But on the
entrance of half a dozen peelers com-
manded by a huge sergeant, Joselito, the
jockey's young brother, covered himself
with glory. Leaping on the reserved seats,
he brought his right hand over hard and
true to the sergeant's jaw, and the sergeant
was out for half an hour. Joselito was ar-
rested, but the case was laughed out of court.
The idea of a minuscule jockey who could
ride at ninety pounds knocking out six foot
three of Royal Irish Constabulary was too
much. Nothing was found on him but his
bare hands, a packet of cigarettes and thirty
sovereigns he had won over the match. But
I knew better. I decided to prove him with
hard questions.
"Ask him in Romany, James Carabine,
what he had wrapped around that horse-
shoe he threw away."
"He says: Tow, Mister Kerry.' "
"Get me my riding crop," I said; "I'll
take him behind the stables." And the train-
ing camp lost its best lightweight jockey
for ten days, the saddle suddenly becoming
repulsive to him. I believe he slept on his
face.
But the one who was really wild about
the affair was Ann-Dolly. She came across
from Spanish Men's Rest flaming with an-
ger.
"Because a Spanish wins, there is fight-
ing, there is anger. If an Irish wins, there
is joy, there is drinking. Oh, shame of sports-
manship!"
Destiny
"Oh, shut your gab, Ann-Dolly," I told
her. "They didn't know he was a Spanish,
as you call it."
"What did they think he was if not a
Spanish? Tell me. I demand it of you."
"They thought he was Welsh."
"Oh, in that case . . ." said Ann-Dolly,
completely mollified. Ipsa hibernis hiher-
nioral
I wouldn't have you think that all was
beer and skittles, as the English say, in
training Romany Baw for the Derby. As
spring came closer, the face of the old
trainer showed signs of strain. The Lincoln
Handicap was run and the Grand National
passed, and suddenly flat-racing was on us.
And now not the Kohinoor was watched
more carefully than the Derby horse. We
had a spanking trial on a course as nearly
approaching the Two Thousand Guineas
route as Destiny Downs would allow, and
when Romany Baw flew past us, beating
Ducks and Drakes who had picked him up
at the mile for the uphill dash, and Sir
Arthur clicked his watch, I saw his tense
face relax.
"He ran well," said the old man.
"He'll walk in," said my uncle Valentine.
My uncle Valentine and Jenico and Ann-
Dolly were going across to Newmarket
Heath for the big race, but the spring of
the year is the time that the farmer must
stay by his land, and nurse it like a child.
All farewells, even for a week, are sad, and
I was loath to see the horses go into the
races. Romany Baw had a regular summer
bloom on him and his companion, the
donkey, was corpulent as an alderman.
Ducks and Drakes looked rough and back-
ward, but that didn't matter.
"You've got the best-looking horse in the
United Kingdom," I told Sir Arthur.
Bay 239
"Thank you, Kerry," the old man was
pleased. "And as to Ducks and Drakes,
looks aren't everything."
"Sure, I know that," I told him.
"I wouldn't be rash," he told mc, "but I'd
have a little on both. That is, if they go to
the post fit and well."
I put in the days as well as I could,
getting ready for the Spring Show at Dub-
lin. But my heart and my thoughts were
with my people and the horses at New-
market. I could see my uncle Valentine's
deep bow with his hat in his hand as they
passed the Roman ditch at Newmarket,
giving that squat wall the reverence that
racing men have accorded it since races
were run there, though why, none know. A
letter from Ann-Dolly apprised me that
the horses had made a good crossing and
that Romany Baw was well — "and you
mustn't think, my dear, that your colt is
not as much and more to us than the Derby
horse, no, Kerry, not for one moment. Lady
Clontarf is here, in her caravan, and oh,
Kerry, she looks ill. Only her burning spirit
keeps her frail body alive. Jenico and I are
going down to Eastbourne to see the little
Earl and his brother . . . You will get this
letter, cousin, on the morning of the
race "
At noon that day I could stand it no longer
so I had James Carabine put the trotter in
the dogcart. "There are some things I want
in Derry," I told myself, "and I may as well
get them to-day as to-morrow." And we
went spinning toward Derry Walls. Ducks
and Drakes' race was the two-thirty. And
after lunch I looked at reapers I might be
wanting in July until the time of the race. I
went along to the club, and had hardly
entered it when I saw the boy putting up
the telegram on the notice board.
I, Duc\s and Dra\es, an hundred to
24O Donn
eight; 2, Geneva, four to six; 3, /^//y Sloper,
three to one. "That's that!" I said. Another
telegram gave the betting for the Tw^o
Thousand: Threes, Sir James; seven to tw^o,
Toison d^or; eights, Cd Canjiy, Gree\
Singer, Germanicus; tens, six or seven
horses; twenty to one any other. No word
in the betting of the gypsy horse, and I
wondered had anything happened. Surely
a horse looking as well as he did must have
attracted backers' attention. And as I was
worrying the result came in, Romany Baw,
first; Sir James, second, Toison d'Or, third.
"Kerry," somebody called.
"I haven't a minute," I shouted. Neither
I had, for James Carabine was outside, wait-
ing to hear the result. When I told him he
said : "There's a lot due to you, Mister Kerry,
in laying out those gallops." "Be damned to
that!" I said, but I was pleased all the same.
I was on tenterhooks until I got the papers
describing the race. Ducks and Drakes' win
was dismissed summarily, as that of an Irish
outsider, and the jockey, Flory Cantillon
(Frasco could not manage the weight), was
credited with a clever win of two lengths.
But the account of Romany Baw's race
filled me with indignation. According to it,
the winner got away well, but the favourites
were hampered at the start and either could
have beaten the Irish trained horse, only
that they just didn't. The race was won by
half a length, a head separating second and
third, and most of the account was given to
how the favourites chased the lucky out-
sider, and in a few more strides would
have caught him. There were a few dirty
backhanders given at Romany's jockey,
who, they said, would be more at home in
a circus than on a modern race track. He
sat like a rider of a century back, they de-
scribed it, more like an exponent of the old
manege than a modern jockey, and even
Byrne
while the others were thundering at his
horse's hindquarters he never moved his
seat or used his whip. The experts' judg-
ment of the race was that the Irish colt
was forward in a backward field, and that
Romany would be lost on Epsom Downs,
especially with its "postillion rider."
But the newspaper criticisms of the jockey
and his mount did not seem to bother my
uncle Valentine or the trainer or the jockey's
self. They came back elated ; even the round
white donkey had a humorous happy look
in his full Latin eye.
"Did he go well?" I asked.
"He trotted it," said my uncle Valentine.
"But the accounts read, sir," I protested,
"that the favourites would have caught him
in another couple of strides."
"Of course they would," said my uncle
Valentine, "at the pace he was going," he
added.
"I see," said I.
"You see nothing," said my uncle Valen-
tine. "But if you had seen the race you
might talk. The horse is a picture. It goes
so sweetly that you wouldn't think it was
going at all. And as for the gypsy jockey — "
"The papers say he's antiquated."
"He's seven pounds better than Flory
Cantillon," said my uncle Valentine.
I whistled. Cantillon is our best Irish
jockey, and his retaining fees are enormous,
and justified. "They said he was nearly
caught napping — "
"Napping be damned!" exploded my un-
cle Valentine. "This Spanish gypsy is the
finest judge of pace I ever saw. He knew
he had the race won, and he never both-
ered."
"If the horse is as good as that, and you
have as high an opinion of the rider, well,
sir, I won a hatful over the Newmarket
meeting, and as the price hasn't gone below
Destiny Bay
241
twenties for the Derby, I'm going after the
Ring. There's many a bookmaker will wish
he'd stuck to his father's old-clothes busi-
ness."
"I wouldn't, Kerry," said my uncle Valen-
tine. "I'm not sure I wouldn't hedge a bit
of what I have on, if I were you."
I was still with amazement.
"I saw Mifanwy Clontarf," said my uncle
Valentine, "and only God and herself and
myself and now you, know how ill that
woman is."
"But ill or not ill, she won't scratch the
horse."
"She won't," said my uncle Valentine,
and his emphasis on 'she' chilled me to the
heart. "You're forgetting, Kerry," he said
very quietly, "the Derby Rule."
Of the Derby itself on Epsom Downs,
everybody knows. It is supposed to be the
greatest test of a three-year-old in the world,
though old William Day used to hold it was
easy. The course may have been easy for
Lord George Bentinck's famous and un-
beaten mare Crucifix, when she won the
Oaks in 1840, but most winners over the
full course justify their victory in other
races. The course starts up a heartbreaking
hill, and swinging around the top, comes
down again toward Tattenham Corner. If
a horse waits to steady itself coming down
it is beaten. The famous Fred Archer
(whose tortured soul God rest!) used to
take Tattenham Corner with one leg over
the rails. The straight is uphill. A mile and
a half of the trickest, most heartbreaking
ground in the world. Such is Epsom. Its
turf has been consecrated by the hoofs of
great horses since James I established there
a race for the Silver Bell: by Cromwell's
great CofSn Mare; by the Arabs, Godolphin
and Darby; by the great bay, Malton; by
the prodigious Eclipse; by Diomed, son of
Florizcl, who went to America
Over the Derby what sums are wagered
no man knows. On it is won the Calcutta
Sweepstake, a prize of which makes a man
rich for life, and the Stock Exchange sweep,
and other sweeps innumerable. Some one
has ventured the belief that on it annually
are five million of pounds sterling, and
whether he is millions short, or millions
over none knows. Because betting is illegal.
There are curious customs in regard to
it, as this: that when the result is sent over
the ticker to clubs, in case of a dead heat,
the word "dead heat" must come first,
because within recent years a trusted lawyer,
wagering trust funds on a certain horse,
was waiting by the tape to read the result,
and seeing another horse's name come up,
went away forthv/ith and blew his brains
out. Had he been less volatile he would have
seen his own fancy's name follow that,
with "dead heat" after it and been to this
day rich and respected. So now, for the
protection of such, "dead heat" comes first.
A dead heat in the Derby is as rare a thing
as there is in the world, but still vou can't
be too cautious. But the quaintest rule of
the Derby is this : that if the nominator of a
horse for the Derby Stakes dies, his horse
is automatically scratched. There is a legend
to the effect that an heir-at-law purposed
to kill the owner of an entry, and to run
a prime favourite crookedly, and that on
hearing this the Stewards of the Jockey Club
made the rule. Perhaps it has a more prosaic
reason. The Jockey Club may have con-
sidered that when a man died, in the trouble
of fixing his estates, forfeits would not be
paid, and that it was best for all concerned
to have the entry scratched. How it came
about does not matter, it exists. Whether it
is good in law is not certain. Racing folk
242 Donn
will quarrel with His Majesty's Lord Jus-
tices of Appeal, with the Privy Council, but
they will not quarrel with the Jockey Club.
Whetlier it is good in fact is indisputable,
for certain owners can tell stories of nar-
row escapes from racing gangs, in those old
days before the Turf was cleaner than the
Church, when attempts were made to nob-
ble favourites, when jockeys had not the
wings of angels under their silken jackets,
when harsh words were spoken about train-
ers — very, very long ago. There it is, good
or bad, the Derby Rule!
As to our bets on the race, they didn't
matter. It was just bad luck. But to see the
old lady's quarter million of pounds and
more go down the pike was a tragedy.
We had seen so much of shabby great
names that I trembled for young Clontarf
and his brother. Armenian and Greek fami-
lies of doubtful antecedents were always on
the lookout for a title for their daughters,
and crooked businesses always needed di-
rectors of title to catch gulls, so much in
the United Kingdom do the poor trust their
peers. The boys would not be exactly poor,
because the horse, whether or not it ran
in the Derby, would be worth a good round
sum. If it were as good as my uncle Valen-
tine said, it would win the Leger and the
Gold Cup at Ascot. But even with these
triumphs it wouldn't be a Derby winner.
And the Derby means so much. There are
so many people in England who remember
dates by the Derby winner's names, as "I
was married in Bend Or's year", or "the
Achilles was lost in the China seas, let me
see when, — that was in Sainfoins year."
Also I wasn't sure that the Spanish gypsy
would stay to ride him at Doncaster, or
return for Ascot. I found him one day
standing on the cliffs of Destiny and looking
Byrne
long at the sea, and I knew what that
meant. And perhaps Romany Baw would
not run for another jockey as he ran for
him.
I could not think that Death could be so
cruel as to come between us and triumph.
In Destiny we have a friendliness for the
Change which most folk dread. One of our
songs says:
"When Mother Death in her warm arms shall
embrace me,
Low lull me to sleep with sweet Erin-go-
bragh— "
We look upon it as a kind friend who
comes when one is tired and twisted with
pain, and says: "Listen, avourneen, soon
the dawn will come, and the tide is on the
ebb. We must be going." And we trust him
to take us, by a short road or a long road
to a place of birds and bees, of which even
lovely Destiny is but a clumsy seeming. He
could not be such a poor sportsman as to
come before the aged gallant lady had won
her last gamble. And poor Sir Arthur, who
had come out of his old age in Mayo to win
a Derby! It would break his heart. And the
great horse, it would be so hard on him.
Nothing will convince me that a thorough-
bred does not know a great race when he
runs one. The streaming competitors, the
crackle of silk, the roar as they come into
the straight, and the sense of the jockey
calling on the great heart that the writer
of Job knew so well. "The glory of his nos-
tril is terrible," says the greatest of poets.
"He pauseth in the valley and rejoiceth in
his strength : he goeth on to meet the armed
men." Your intellectual will claim that the
thoroughbred is an artificial brainless ani-
mal evolved by men for their amusement.
Your intellectual, here again, is a liar.
Spring came in blue and gold. Blue of
Destiny
sea and fields and trees; gold of sun and
sand and buttercup. Blue of wild hyacinth
and bluebell; gold of primrose and labur-
num tree. The old gypsy lady was with her
caravan near Bordeaux, and from the occa-
sional letter my uncle Valentine got, and
from the few words he dropped to me, she
was just holding her own. May drowsed
by with the cheeping of the little life in the
hedgerows. The laburnum floated in a
cloud of gold and each day Romany Baw
grew stronger. When his blankets were
stripped from him he looked a mass of
fighting muscle under a covering of satin,
and his eye showed that his heart was fight-
ing too. Old Sir Arthur looked at him a
few days before we were to go to England,
and he turned to me.
"Kerry," he said, very quietly.
"Yes, Sir Arthur."
"All my life I have been breeding and
training horses, and it just goes to show,"
he told me, "that goodness of God that he
let me handle this great horse before I died."
The morning before we left my uncle
Valentine received a letter which I could see
moved him. He swore a little as he does
when moved and stroked his vast red beard
and looked fiercely at nothing at all.
"Is it bad news, sir V I asked.
He didn't answer me directly. "Lady
Clontarf is coming to the Derby," he told
me.
Then it was my turn to swear a little. It
seemed to me to be but little short of
maniacal to risk a Channel crossing and
the treacherous English climate in her stage
of health. If she should die on the way or
on the downs, then all her planning and
our work was for nothing. Why could she
not have remained in the soft French air,
husbanding her share of life until the event
was past!
Bay 243
"She comes of ancient, violent blood,"
thundered my uncle Valentine, "and where
should she be but present when her people
or her horses go forth to battle.'^"
"You are right, sir," I said.
The epithet of "flaming" which the Eng-
Hsh apply to their June was in this year of
grace well deserved. The rhododendrons
were bursting into great fountains of scarlet,
and near the swans the cygnets paddled,
unbelievably small. The larks fluttered in
the air above the downs, singing so gallantly
that when you heard the trill of the night-
ingale in the thicket giving his noontime
song, you felt inclined to say: "Be damned
to that Italian bird ; my money's on the wee
fellow!" All through Surrey the green walls
of spring rose high and thick, and then sud-
denly coming, as we came, through Leather-
head and topping the hill, in the distance
the black colony of the downs showed like
a thundercloud. At a quarter mile away,
the clamour came to you, like the vibration
when great bells have been struck.
The stands and enclosures were packed
so thickly that one wondered how move-
ment was possible, how people could enjoy
themselves, close as herrings. My uncle Val-
entine had brought his beautiful harness
ponies across from Ireland, "to encourage
English interest in the Irish horse" he ex-
plained it, but with his beautifully cut
clothes, his grey high hat, it seemed to me
that more people looked at him as we spun
along the road than looked at the horses.
Behind us sat James Carabine, with his face
brown as autumn and the gold riags in
his thickened ears. We got out near the pad-
dock and Carabine took the ribbons. My
uncle Valentine said quietly to him: "Find
out how things are, James Carabine." And
I knew he was referring to the gypsy lady.
^44 Donn
Her caravan was somewhere on the Downs
guarded by her gypsies, but my uncle had
been there the first day of the meeting, and
on Monday night, at the National Sporting,
some of the gypsies had waited for him com-
ing out and given him news. I asked him
how she was, but all his answer was: "It's
in the Hands of God."
Along the track toward the grand stand
we made our way. On the railings across
the track the bookmakers were proclaiming
their market: "I'll give fives the field. I'll
give nine to one bar two. I'll give twenty
to one bar five. Outsiders! Outsiders! Fives
Sir James. Seven to one Toison d'Or. Nines
Honey Bee. Nines Welsh Melody. Ten to
one the gypsy horse."
"It runs all right," said my uncle Valen-
tine, "up to now."
"Twenty to one Maureen Roe! Twenties
Asclepiadesl Twenty-five Rifle Ranger,
Here thirty-three to one Rifle Ranger, Mon\
of Sussex, or Presumptuous — "
"Gentlemen, I am here to plead with you
not to back the favourite. In this small en-
velope you will find the number of the
winner. For the contemptible sum of two
shillings or half a dollar, you may amass a
fortune. Who gave the winner of last year's
Derby?" a tipster was calling. "Who gave
the winner of the Oaks? Who gave the
winner of the Steward's Cup?"
"All right, guv'nor, I'll bite. 'Oo the 'ell
did?"
Opposite the grand stand the band of the
Salvation Army was blaring the music of
"Work, for the Night is Coming." Gypsy
girls were going around dul^l^ering or tell-
ing fortune. "Ah, gentleman, you've a lucky
face. Cross the poor gypsy's hand with
silver — "
"You better cut along and see your horse
saddled," said my uncle Valentine. Ducks
Byrne
and Drakes was in the Ranmore Plate and
with the penalty he received after New-
market, Frasco could ride him. As I went
toward the paddock I saw the numbers go
up, and I saw we were drawn third, which
I think is best of all on the tricky Epsom
five-furlough dash. I got there in time to
see the gypsy swing into the saddle in the
green silk jacket and orange cap, and Sir
Arthur giving him his orders. "Keep back
of the Fusilier," he pointed to the horse,
"and then come out. Hit him once if you
have to, and no more."
''Si, si, Don Arturol" And he grinned at
me.
"Kerry, read this,'* said the old trainer,
and he gave me a newspaper, "and tell me
before the race," his voice was trembling a
little, "if there's truth in it."
I pushed the paper into my pocket and
went back to the box where my uncle Val-
entine and Jenico and Ann-Dolly were.
"What price my horse," I asked in Tatter-
sail's. "Sixes, Mister MacFarlane." "I'll take
six hundred to an hundred twice." As I
moved away there was a rush to back it.
It tumbled in ^wt minutes to five to two.
"And I thought I'd get tens," I said to
my uncle Valentine, "with the Fusilier and
Bonny Hortense in the race. I wonder who's
been backing it."
"I have," said Ann-Dolly. "I got twelves."
"You might have the decency to wait un-
til the owner gets on," I said bitterly. And as
I watched the tapes went up. It was a beau-
tiful start. Everything except those on the
outside seemed to have a chance as they
raced for the rails. I could distinguish the
green jacket but vaguely until they came
to Tattenham Corner, when I could see
Fusilier pull out, and Bonny Hortense fol-
low. But back of Fusilier, racing quietly
beside the filly, was the jacket green.
Destiny
"I wish he'd go up," I said.
"The favourite wins," they were shout-
ing. And a woman in the box next us began
to clap her hands calling: "Fusilier's won.
Fusilier wins it!"
"You're a damn fool, woman," said Ann-
Dolly. "Ducks and Drakes has it." And as
she spoke, I could see Frasco hunch forward
slightly and dust his mount's neck with his
whip. He crept past the hard-pressed Fusi-
lier to win by half a length.
In my joy I nearly forgot the newspaper,
and I glanced at it rapidly. My heart sank.
"Gypsy Owner Dying as Horse runs in
Derby," I read, and reading down it I felt
furious. Where the man got his information
from I don't know, but he drew a pictur-
esque account of the old gypsy lady on her
deathbed on the downs as Romany Baw
was waiting in his stall. The account was
written the evening before, and "it is im-
probable she will last the night," it ended.
I gave it to my uncle Valentine, who had
been strangely silent over my win.
"What shall I say to Sir Arthur Pollex-
fen?"
"Say she's ill, but it's all rot she's dying."
I noticed as I went to the paddock a mur-
mur among the racegoers. The attention of
all had been drawn to the gypsy horse by
its jockey having won the Ranmore Plate.
Everywhere I heard questions being asked
as to whether she were dead. Sir James had
hardened to fours. And on the heath I heard
a woman proffer a sovereign to a book-
maker on Romany Baw, and he said : "That
horse don't run, lady." I forgot my own
little triumph in die tragedy of the scratch-
ing of the great horse.
In the paddock Sir Arthur was standing
watching the lads leading the horses around.
Twenty-seven entries, glossy as silk, mus-
cled like athletes of old Greece, ready to run
Bay 245
for the Deroy stakes. The jockeys, with their
hard wizened faces, stood talking to train-
ers and owners, saying nothing about the
race, all already having been said, but just
putting in the time until the order came to
go to the gate. I moved across to the old
Irish trainer and the gypsy jockey. Sir
Arthur was saying nothing, but his hand
trembled as he took a pinch of snuff from
his old-fashioned silver horn. The gypsy
jockey stood erect, with his overcoat over
his silk. It was a heart-rending five minutes
standing there beside them, waiting for
the message that they were not to go.
My uncle Valentine was standing with a
couple of the Stewards, A small race offi-
cial was explaining something to them.
They nodded him away. There was an-
other minute's conversation and my uncle
came toward us. The old trainer was fum-
bling pitifully with his silver snuff horn,
trying to find the pocket in which to put it.
"It's queer," said my uncle Valentine,
"but nobody seems to know where Lady
Clontarf is. She's not in her caravan."
"So — " questioned the old trainer.
"So you run," said my uncle Valentine.
"The horse comes under starter's orders.
You may have an objection, Arthur, but you
run."
The old man put on youth and grandeur
before my eyes. He stood erect. With an eye
like an eagle's he looked around the pad-
dock.
"Leg up, boy!" he snapped at Frasco.
"Here, give me your coat." I helped
throw the golden-and-red shirted figure
into the saddle. Then the head lad led the
horse out.
We moved down the track and into the
stand, and the parade began. Lord Shire's
great horse, and the French hope Toison
d'Orj the brown colt owned by the richest
246 Donn
merchant in the world, and the Httle horse
owned by the Leicester butcher, who served
in his own shop; the horse owned by the
peer of last year's making; and the bay
filly owned by the first baroness in England.
They went down past the stand, and turn-
ing breezed off at a gallop back, to cross
the downs toward the starting gate, and as
they went with each went some one's heart.
All eyes seemed turned on the gypsy horse,
with his rider erect as a Life Guardsman.
As Frasco raised his whip to his cap in
the direction of our box, I heard in one of
the neighbouring boxes a man say: "But
that horse's owner is dead!"
"Is that so. Uncle Valentine?" asked Ann-
Dolly. There were tears in her eyes. "Is that
true?"
"Nothing is true until you see it your-
self," parried my uncle Valentine. And as
she seemed to be about to cry openly, —
"Don't you see the horse running?" he
said. "Don't you know the rule?" But his
eyes were riveted through his glasses on the
starting gate. I could see deep furrows of
anxiety on his bronze brow. In the distance,
over the crowd's heads, over the book-
maker's banners, over the tents, we could
see the dancing horses at the tape, the gay
colours of the riders moving here and there
in an intricate pattern, the massed hun-
dreds of black figures at the start. Near us,
across the rails, some religious zealots let
fly little balloons carrying banners remind-
ing us that doom was waiting. Their band
broke into a lugubrious hymn, while nasal
voices took it up. In the silence of the
crowded downs, breathless for the start,
the religious demonstration seemed start-
ingly trivial. The line of horses, formed
for the gate, broke, and wheeled. My uncle
snapped his fingers in vexation.
"Why can't the fool get them away ?"
Byrne
Then out of a seeming inextricable maze,
the line formed suddenly and advanced on
the tapes. And the heavy silence exploded
into a low roar like growling thunder. Each
man shouted: "They're off!" The Derby had
started.
It seemed like a river of satin, with iri-
descent foam, pouring, against all nature,
uphill. And for one instant you could dis-
tinguish nothing. You looked to see if your
horse had got away well, had not been
kicked or cut into at the start, and as you
were disentangling them, the banks of gorse
shut them from your view, and when you
saw them again they were racing for the
turn of the hill. The erect figure of the
jockey caught my eye before his colours
did.
"He's lying fifth," I told my uncle Valen-
tine.
"He's running well," my uncle remarked
quietly.
They swung around the top of the hill,
appearing above the rails and gorse, like
something tremendously artificial, like some
theatrical illusion, as of a boat going across
the stage. There were three horses grouped
together, then a black horse — Esterhazy's
fine colt — then Romany Baw, then after that
a stretching line of horses. Something came
out of the pack at the top of the hill, and
passed the gypsy horse and the fourth.
"Toison d'Or is going up," Jenico told
me.
But the gallant French colt's bolt was
flown. He fell back, and now one of the
leaders dropped back. And Romany was
fourth as they started downhill for Tatten-
ham Corner. "How slow they go!" I
thought.
"What a pace!" said Jenico, his watch in
his hand.
At Tattenham Corner the butcher's lovely
Destiny
little horse was beaten, and a sort of moan
came from the rails where the poor people
stood. Above the religious band's outrageous
nasal tones, the ring began roaring: "Sir
James! Sir James has it. Twenty to one
bar St. James!"
As they came flying up the stretch I could
see the favourite going along, like some
bird flying low, his jockey hunched like an
ape on his withers. Beside him raced an out-
sider, a French-bred horse owned by Ka-
zoutlian, an Armenian banker. Close to his
heels came the gypsy horse on the inside,
Frasco sitting as though the horse were
standing still. Before him raced the favour-
ite and the rank outsider.
"It's all over," I said. "He can't get
through. And he can't pull around. Luck
of the game!"
And then the rider on the Armenian's
horse tried his last effort. He brought his
whip high in the air. My uncle Valentine
thundered a great oath.
"Look, Kerry!" His fingers gripped my
shoulder.
I knew, when I saw the French horse
throw his head up, that he was going to
swerve at the whip, but I never expected
Frasco's mad rush. He seemed to jump the
opening, and land the horse past Sir James.
"The favourite's beat!" went up the cry
of dismay.
Romany Baw, with Frasco forward on his
neck, passed the winning post first by a
clear length.
Then a sort of stunned silence fell on
the Derby crowd. Nobody knew what
would happen. If, as the rumour went
around, the owner was dead, then the sec-
ond automatically won. All eyes were on the
horse as the trainer led him into the pad-
dock, followed by second and third. All
eyes turned from the horse toward the notice
Bay 247
board as the numbers went up: 17, i, 26.
All folk were waiting for the red objection
signal. The owner of the second led his
horse in, the burly Yorkshire peer. An old
gnarled man, with a face like a walnut,
Kazoutlian's self, led in the third.
"I say, Kerry," Jenico called quietly,
"something's up near the paddock."
I turned and noticed a milling mob down
the course on our right. The mounted po-
licemen set off at a trot toward the commo-
tion. Then cheering went into the air like
a peal of bells.
Down the course came all the gypsies,
all the gypsies in the world, it seemed to me.
Big-striding, black men with gold earrings
and coloured neckerchiefs, and staves in
their hands. And gypsy women, a-j ingle
with coins, dancing. Their tambourines
jangled, as they danced forward in a strange
East Indian rhythm. There was a loud order
barked by the police officer, and the men
stood by to let them pass. And the stolid
English police began cheering too. It seemed
to me that even the little trees of the downs
were cheering, and in an instant I cheered
too.
For back of an escort of mounted g\'psies,
big foreign men with moustaches, saddle-
less on their shaggy mounts, came a g)'psy
cart with its cover down, drawn by four
prancing horses. A wild-looking gypsy man
was holding the reins. On the cart, for all
to see, seated in a great armchair, propped
up by cushions, was Lady Clontarf. Her
head was laid back on a pillow, and her
eyes were closed, as if the strain of appear-
ing had been too much for her. Her little
maid was crouched at her feet.
For an instant we saw her, and noticed
the aged beauty of her face, noticed the
peace like twilight on it. There was an
order from a big Roumanian gypsy and the
248 Donn
Romany people made a lane. The driver
stood up on his perch and manoeuvring his
long snakclike whip in the air, made it
crack like a musket. The horses broke into
a gallop, and the gypsy cart v^'ent over the
turfed course toward Tattenham Corner,
passed it, and went up the hill and disap-
peared over the Surrey downs. All the world
was cheering.
"Come in here," said my uncle Valentine,
and he took me into the cool beauty of our
little church of Saint Columba's-in-Paganry.
"Now what do you think of that?" And he
pointed out a brass tablet on the wall.
"In Memory of Mifanwy, Countess of
Clontarf and Kincora," I read. Then came
the dates of her birth and death, "and who
is buried after the Romany manner, no man
knows where." And then came the strange
text, "In death she was not divided."
"But surely," I objected, "the quotation
is : 'In death they were not divided.' "
"It may be," said my uncle Valentine, "or
it may not be. But as the living of Saint
Columba's-in-Paganry is in my gift, surely
to God!" he broke out, "a man can have a
text the way he wants it in his own Church."
This was arguable, but something more
serious caught my eye.
Byrne
"See, sir," I said, "the date of her death is
wrong. She died on the evening of Derby
Day, June the second. And here it is given
as June the first."
"She did not die on the evening of Derby
Day. She died on the First."
"Then," I said, "when she rode down the
course on her gypsy cart," and a little chill
came over me, "she was — "
"As a herring, Kerry, as a gutted herring,"
my uncle Valentine said.
"Then the rule was really infringed, and
the horse should not have won."
"Wasn't he the best horse there .f^"
^'Undoubtedly, sir, but as to the betting."
"The bookmakers lost less than they
would have lost on the favourite."
"But the backers of the favourite."
"The small backer in the silver ring is
paid on the first past the post, so they'd
have lost, anyway. At any rate, they all
should have lost. They backed their opinion
as to which was the best horse, and it
wasn't."
"But damn it all, sir! and God forgive
me for swearing in this holy place — there's
the Derby Rule."
" 'The letter killeth,' Kerry," quoted my
uncle gravely, even piously. " 'The letter
killeth.' '*
JOHN MASEFIELD
The Finish
front RIGHT ROYAL
This magnificent narrative poem by John Masefield, companion piece
to Reynard the Fox, tells the story of a race in which a man riding a
horse that has never won because of a lac\ of courage, dreams that
now, at last, his horse's day has come, and so bets his whole fortune and
future on the outcome of the race. Off to a bad start with his horse falling
over a hurdle, he remounts and trails the field until the very end whe^i
he overta\es and passes it. The stirring rhythm of the words ending the
poem has the reader very nearly gasping for breath when the "White Post"
is finally passed.
So they rushed for one second, then Sir Lopez shot out:
Charles thought, "There, he's done me, without any doubt.
O come now. Right Royal!" And Sir Lopez changed feet
And his ears went back level; Sir Lopez was beat.
Right Royal went past him, half an inch, half a head,
Half a neck, he was leading, for an instant he led;
Then a hooped black and coral flew up like a shot,
With a lightning-like effort from little Gavotte.
The little bright mare, made of nerves and steel springs,
Shot level beside him, shot ahead as with wings.
Charles felt his horse quicken, felt the desperate beat
Of the blood in his body from his knees to his feet.
Three terrible strides brought him up to the mare,
Then they swirled to wild shouting through a whirl of blown air;
Then Gavotte died to nothing; Soyland came once again
Till his muzzle just reached to the knot on his rein.
Then a whirl of urged horses thundered up, whipped and blown
Soyland, Peterkinooks, and Red Ember the roan.
249
]ohn Masc field
For an instant they challenged, then they drooped and were done;
Then the White Post shot backwards, Right Royal had won.
Won a half length from Soyland, Red Ember close third;
Fourth, Peterkinooks; Fifth, Gavotte, harshly spurred;
Sixth, Sir Lopez, whose rider said "J^st at the straight
He swerved at the hurdle and twisted a plate."
Then the numbers went up; then John Harding appeared
To lead in the Winner while the bookmakers cheered.
Then the riders weighed-in, and the meeting was over.
And bright Emmy Crowthorne could go with her lover.
For the bets on Right Royal which Cothill had made
The take defaulted, they never were paid;
The taker went West, whence he sent Charles's bride
Silver bit-cups and beadwork on antelope hide.
Charles married his lady, but he rode no more races;
He lives on the Downland on the blown grassy places,
Where he and Right Royal can canter for hours
On the flock bitten turf full of tiny blue flowers.
There the Roman pitcht camp, there the Saxon kept sheep.
There he lives out this Living that no man can keep,
That is manful but a moment before it must pass.
Like the stars sweeping westward, like the wind on the grass.
250
VI
Horses, Old & Young
Grave & Gay
A bad-tempered man will never
make a good-tempered horse.
ANNA SEWELL
CAPTAIN de COUDENHOVE
The Artillery Horse's Prayer
from THE FIELD ARTILLERY JOURNAL
This prayer was given me some years ago by Colonel Harry Disston,
He did not, at the time, tell me who Captain de Coudenhove was, or how
he happened to have the prayer, I am glad to include it here as the only
representation of the horse at war.
To thee, my Master, I offer my prayer.
Treat me as a living being, not as a machine.
Feed me, water and care for me, and when the day's work is
done, groom me carefully so that my circulation may act well,
for remember, a good grooming is equivalent to half a feed. Clean
my legs and feet and keep them in good condition for they are
the most important parts of my body.
Pet me sometimes, be always gentle with me so that I may serve
you the more gladly and learn to love you.
Do not jerk the reins, do not whip me when I am going up-hill.
Do not force me out of the regular gait or you will not have
my strength when you want it. Never strike, beat or kick me
when I do not understand what you mean, but give me a chance to
understand you. Watch me, and if I fail to do your bidding,
see if something is not wrong with my harness or feet.
Don't draw the straps too tight: give me freedom to move my
head. Don't make my load too heavy, and Oh! I pray thee, have
me well shod every month. Examine my teeth when I do not eat:
I may have some teeth too long or I may have an ulcerated tooth,
and that, you know, is very painful. Do not tie my head in an
unnatural position or take away my best defence against die
flies and mosquitoes by cutting off my tail.
I cannot, alas, tell you when I am thirsty, so give me pure,
cold water frequently. Do all you can to protect me from the
253
Captain de Cotidenhove
sun: and throw a cover over me, not when I am working, but when
I am standing in the cold.
I ahvays try to do cheerfully the work you require of me:
and day and night I stand for hours patiently waiting for you.
In this war, Uke any other soldier, I will do my best without
hope of any war cross, content to serve my country and you; if
need be, I will die calm and dignified on the battlefield; there-
fore, oh! my master, treat me in the kindest way and your God
will reward you here and hereafter.
I am not irreverent if I ask this, my prayer, in the name of Him
who was born in a stable.
254
HELEN DORE BOYLSTON (contemporary)
The Lady of Leisure
from HARPER'S MAGAZINE (1933
Here is as delightful and delicate a picture of a horse as one will find
anywhere. The writer depends not on any unusual circumstances, not
on any human character, but on the charm of her heroine, and enchants
us all in so doing.
Y^W ^wo horses, with rider, came up the
highway by the pasture, their
hoofs clopping in cheerful rhythm
on the hard surface. Molly ran along the
fence beside them, her head and tail very
high and her black body shining in the
sun. If it had not been for the fence she
could have outrun them easily. But the
fence was there. Molly watched them until
they grew small in the distance, then she
swung around and ambled slowly back to
the end of the pasture.
She was very clean. No speck of dust
lurked beneath the sheen of her coat. Her
mane and tail were free of burs and tangles.
Her hoofs had been newly oiled.
At the margin of the frog pond she
paused. Her ears pricked forward and she
wooshed softly through her nose. The water
was brackish and muddy and covered with
a green slime. Molly never drank there, pre-
ferring the spring under the apple trees,
but now she went unhesitatingly to the
water and splashed in. When the gray ooze
reached her knees she turned sidewise to
the bank and lay down with a grunt. She
rolled, floundered up, turned, and rolled
again. When at last she rose, dripping, the
cool clay lay thickly on her back and sides
and plastered her legs. A lily pad was
caught in her tail and her mane was fes-
tooned with wreaths of green slime. Molly
shook herself gingerly and clambered up
the bank.
A cowpath wandered through a tangle
of weeds and long grass and straggled
away under the apple trees, to the barn.
It was soft under foot and the grasses were
sweet and juicy. Molly browsed a little here
and there and snufTed at the clover-scented
wind.
The barn windows were open and Molly
stopped, very casually, beneath one. She
waited for a moment, and then, hearing the
swish of a tail inside, laid her ears flat to
her head and snorted. There was a sound of
trampling, and Molly wheeled. But when
the brown head and wondering eyes of
Governor, the three-year-old gelding, ap-
peared in the window, Molly was standing
255
256
Helen Dore
quietly with drooping head and eyes half
closed. A wisp of green slime dangled
from one ear. Her back was just within
reach of Governor's nose.
He stretched his head out of the window,
all eagerness, and sniffed at Molly's wet
flank. Then he sprank back squealing.
Molly's heels had missed his nose by a scant
half inch. She lashed out again, her hoofs
ringing against the side of the barn. There
was a splintering crash inside, more tram-
pling, another crash, and a long enraged
squeal. Molly kicked at the barn once more.
Governor returned the kick with fury.
It was Bruce. Molly moved away from
the window and stared over the pasture gate
at the overalled figure in the garage door-
way. The clamor in the barn ceased. Molly's
eyes shone with honesty. Her ears stood up
in astonished innocence. Her little forefeet
were planted close together. She waited
primly, clay daubed and virtuous. Bruce
grinned and after a moment went back into
the garage.
The wind whispered in the oaks and an
acorn fell with a sharp thwack on the barn
roof. Governor was silent. A leaf blew across
the barnyard and a puff-ball of a kitten
rushed after it, tail twirking. A sound of
hammering came from the garage. Molly
stretched out a soft black nose and fum-
bled with the wooden button that fastened
the gate. It did not move easily and it was
splintery. Molly tried her teeth on it and
at last it turned. She pushed at the gate,
but nothing happened.
The hammering in the garage stopped
and Bruce appeared suddenly in the door.
Molly drowsed hastily. Bruce crossed to the
house, got something from the back porch,
and returned to the garage.
After a minute Molly tried the gate again.
Boylston
It refused to open. She nosed around the
latch and presently encountered the cold
iron of a hook. It was a fairly loose hook.
Molly worked at it with short lifting drives
of her nose until it fell, tapping, against
the gate, which opened a little way of it-
self, and then caught against the sod. Molly
scraped through, broke into a gallop, and
thundered across the lawn to the driveway.
She clattered before the door of the garage.
Bruce ran out, grimly silent.
Molly cavorted in front of him but not
too near. She plunged and whirled and
rocked and plunged, her hoofs beating a
tattoo on the gravel. Her wet mane flapped
against her neck. Lumps of clay fell from
her. The lily pad in her tail swung in lively
circles behind her. With a final superb fling
of heels into the air she raced down the
slope to the gorge, jumped lightly across
the brook, and began the climb up the steep
wooded hill on the other side.
Bruce followed, panting. He would try
to cut her off and head her back. Molly
kept well ahead of him. She wound in and
out among the oaks, stopping now and
again to look back and see what progress
Bruce was making. He wasn't making
much. The hill was very steep.
Molly continued on, up, her tail switch-
ing vigorously from side to side. Bruce was
crashing through the underbrush below
her as she came out on the crest of the ridge.
She tore off a mouthful of leaves from a
passing branch and stopped to wait. Bruce
was nowhere in sight.
Down the ridge on the other side the
valley began in green and gold and melted
away into the plum-colored hills. Their
outlines wavered in the heat, but the breath
of the wind on Molly's back was cool and
fresh. She munched oak leaves in placid
contentment and watched the cloud sha-
The Lady
dows trailing their purple across the floor
of the valley. On the tiny yellow thread of
the highway a car glittered for a moment
and was gone. Its hum came back on the
wind. A squirrel swore with violence from
a branch above her head. There was silence
below.
Molly moved off the path to the edge of
the ravine and looked down. The oak leaves
dropped unnoticed from her mouth. Bruce
was going back down the hill!
Molly stared after him, round-eyed. Then
she lifted a forefoot and stamped once. Her
nostrils vibrated with the explosion of her
breath.
The path curved sharply and dipped
down into the ravine. Molly stepped down
cautiously, threw herself back on her
haunches, forefeet braced, and slid, plowing
up the matting of leaves and leaving a fur-
row of black loam behind her. One leap
and she was across the brook. Her hoofs
rang on the flagstone steps that led up the
bank to the side of the garage. Bruce was
inside. She could hear him moving. On the
lawn she stopped, ready to run, but Bruce
did not come out.
Molly bit off the top of a nearby holly-
hock, mumbled it and let it drop. She
moved forward along the side of the garage
to where, by stretching her neck to the
uttermost, she could just see the doorsill.
There was no one there. She stamped.
Silence. Briskly, with a determined switch
of the tail, Molly tramped across a flower
bed and went up to the door. The inside
of the garage was dark after the bright
sunlight, and Molly blinked and stretched
and peered, but she saw nothing but a
stairway, outlined against a dusty window-
pane. It was too much. Molly took one more
step and put her head in at the door.
The rope dropped without a sound, set-
of leisure 257
tling neatly behind her ears. Molly knew
better than to fight it. She followed Bruce
across the yard and through the pasture
gate. She watched while he buttoned the
gate, hooked it, and bound the hook in
place with wire. He went away. That was
that.
There was nothing to do. The early wind-
fall apples didn't taste right. The grass
was dusty. The sun was hot, and the drying
clay on her back and sides was beginning
to be itchy. Molly knelt, rolled experiment-
ally once or twice, got a good swing, and
rolled completely over. Truimphant, she
rolled all the way back, and rose in a
shower of dust and twigs.
There was nothing left to do but stand.
Molly stood, growing sleepy. At last a hen
wandering across the pasture caught her
eye. She brightened. There were more hens
scratching around in the grass under the
willows. Molly's ears went back, her head
lifted, and her tail went up. She galloped
down the flock, and it scattered, fluttering
and squawking. Molly dashed back and
forth, her teeth snapping, turning back the
stragglers, and bunching them together.
She drove them into the corner where the
fence joined the barn.
It wasn't a very good place. One hen
skimmed under the fence and escaped.
Molly nagged with teeth and heels and
drove the rest, a compact and jittering little
group, round to the back of the barn. There
was no good place there to hold them either.
She headed them down die wagon road
toward the orchard in a slirieking proces-
sion that sowed the ruts with feathers.
Molly capered behind.
''Molly! For God sa\er
Molly veered away from die flock and
thundered past them, mane and tail stream-
ing. Under the apple trees she stopped and
258
Helen Dore
swung around to look back, neck arched
and head high. Bruce was cHmbing slowly
back over the fence. Molly snorted.
When he had gone Molly cropped a
little grass, but languidly. It was too dusty.
She knocked a fly oft" her foreleg with her
nose. It returned and buzzed about her.
Molly stood waiting, listening to it, her
eyes furious. It lit on her shoulder. Molly
snapped, and the fly dropped to the ground.
The shadows were growing long down
the hillside at the head of the ravine, and
swarms of gnats jigged about her ears. It
would soon be time to eat. Molly turned
suddenly and trotted back to the barn. The
door was open and the sweet musty smell
of the hay blew out upon her. She stepped
across the threshold and went straight to
the door of the feed room. It was not that
she expected to get it open, these days, but
she could always try. She tried. Miracle of
miracles, it opened! Someone had left off
the wire which had held it fast for a year,
against all Molly's attempts.
The top of the feed box was up!
Molly's eyes bulged. She took one step
farther in and buried her nose in the whis-
pering oats. In the loft overhead the hay
ticked faintly. A mouse ran along a beam
and paused to look, bright-eyed and trem-
bling. From somewhere came the thin
mewing of new kittens. Governor stamped
in his stall. Molly ate intensely, lifting her
head only at rare intervals to munch more
leisurely. A fly, caught in a spider web by
the window, droned endlessly. The line
of oats against the side of the feed box sifted
lower and lower.
When it was impossible to crowd in an-
other oat Molly raised her head and sighed,
a gusty sigh of repletion. She backed out
of the feed room a little awkwardly and
went out into the barnyard and down the
Boylston
orchard road. The grasses brushed her knees
and from force of habit she bit off a mouth-
ful, but she chewed without swallowing
and without interest.
The spring lay crystal clear under the
trees, the green foliage mirrored in its heart.
Molly lowered her head and drank for a
long time, sucking up the water in great
thirsty gulps. The coolness flowed around
her nostrils and down her dusty throat. She
lifted her head and stood for a moment,
motionless. Then she drank again.
She felt a little heavy and cold inside
when she at last stopped drinking, and she
turned away from the spring with an effort.
A strange sharp pain was beginning in her
middle. It darted around, stabbing her, and
Molly bit at her side. She heard Bruce's
shout from the window of the feed room,
but it was too much trouble to dodge when
he ran down the road, a halter in his hand.
He seemed agitated. Molly felt the agitation
in his hands when he slipped the halter
over her head.
He led her gently back to the barn, tied
her by the door, and stood looking at her.
"Oh, Molly, Molly! YouVe killed yourself!"
he said. Molly rolled an eye at him. She was
very uncomfortable. He touched her side
and she flinched. Bruce went away through
the barn, running.
Molly's head hung nearly to her knees.
Bruce returned presently and paced back
and forth beside her. He usually moved
rather slowly, but now he walked with
quick short steps and he watched her
sharply. It was irritating, and Molly felt
uneasy. But the pain in her middle seemed
to be going away. She hadn't that heavy
sensation any more either.
A car roared out in front of the barn
and then stopped roaring. A long narrow
man came through the back door of the barn
The Lady
with a bag in his hand. Molly stiffened.
She knew him. He was the one who had
pried her mouth open once and had rasped
at her back teeth most unpleasantly. The
pain in her inside was practically gone now.
The long man and Bruce were both
looking at her and their voices rose and fell.
Molly switched her tail uneasily. The bag
was on the ground and it had an evil smell.
The long man went to it and took out a
bottle. His movements were unhurried as
he approached Molly and his touch on her
neck was sure and kind. Molly relaxed a
little. He spoke to her and his tone was
light. It had been like that before. Molly
jerked her head away from his hands but
they followed her. There was no escape.
Molly stood, rigid and motionless.
It took only a few seconds. The stuff
burned in her throat for a short time, but
that was all. Bruce untied her and let her go
free. They watched her as she turned away
and stood quietly at a little distance from
them. She was still breathing hard and she
was prepared to run if they came toward
her, but they didn't. She rambled across the
barnyard to a clump of grass and picked
at it. She would have gone down to the end
of the pasture, but they couldn't catch her
now anyway, and she hated to miss any-
thing.
They stayed there for a long time, just
waiting, and not doing anything at all,
except once, when Molly considered rolling.
Then they both ran toward her. But when
she scrambled up they only stared at her,
of Leisure 259
their mouths making little round holes in
their faces.
The sun went down behind the hill,
leaving it black against the lemon-yellow
sky. A smell of wood smoke and damp
earth drifted down the breeze. Across the
jfields a whippoorwill called.
Suddenly Molly flung up her head. She
wheeled and raced to the end of the pasture,
circled, and raced back, pounding up to
Bruce with her ears flattened and her eyes
rolling viciously.
The long man sprang for the safety of
the barn door, but Bruce didn't move. A
slow grin spread across his face. He held out
his hand and Molly dropped her nose into
it. The long man shook his head, laughing,
picked up his bag, and vanished into the
darkness. The car roared again and a finger
of light swept across the willows.
Molly tossed her head. Very gently she
reached down and took Bruce's sleeve into
her mouth. A long-drawn loop of sound
came up Wolf Creek — a fox hound trying
his voice — and a rabbit leaped out of a briar
patch and fled, zig-zagging down the
orchard road, its white tuft of tail bobbing
in the starlight. Bruce's other hand crept up
Molly's cheek, patting and patting in quick
little movements.
"Come, Molly."
Molly drew a deep breath. It had been
a very dull day. She rubbed her face against
Bruce's sleeve and then, shoulder to shoul-
der, they crossed the yard and went into the
warm darkness of the barn.
HERBERT RAVENEL SASS (1884- )
Northwind
from THE WAY OF THE WILD
There have been a number of theories advanced as to how the wild
horses on the islands off Carolina originated. The supposition of this
story is as plausible as any. I felt myself fortunate in finding a story
which not only concerned a special breed but also the American Indian,
The descriptions are both accurate and beautiful. Indians, li\e all savages,
have no feelings of pity, so the Raven has no pity at the helplessness of
the frantic stallion. No wild stallion story seems complete without a
fight, and the one recounted here is well done. This whole story is vivid;
but not sentimental as are so many about the untamed horses of America.
It was in the days when Moytoy of
Tellequo was High Chief of the
Cherokee nation that the wild chestnut
stallion known afterward as Northwind
left the savannahs of the Choctaw country
and travelled to the Overhills of the Chero-
kees. He made this long journey because
the Choctaw horse-hunters had been press-
ing him hard. A rumor had run through
the tribe, started perhaps by some learned
conjurer or medicine man, that the tall,
long-maned chestnut stallion who was king
of the wild horse herds was descended from
the famous steed which the Prince Soto
rode when, many years before, he led his
Spaniards through the Choctaw lands far
into the Mississippi wilderness and perished
there.
This rumor sharpened the eagerness of
the younger braves, for it was well known
that Soto's horse had magic in him. That
spring they hunted the wild stallion more
persistently than ever; and at last, taking
two sorrel mares with him, he struck north-
eastward, seeking safer pastures.
He did not find them in the Overhills,
as the Cherokees called the high Smokies
and the Blue Ridge where they lived and
hunted. At dawn one May morning, as he
lay on a bed of fresh sweet-scented grass
near the middle of a natural pasture known
as Long Meadow, a warning came to him.
He raised his head high and sniflfed the
air, then jumped nimbly to his feet. For a
half minute, however, he did not rouse the
260
The Way
two mares lying on either side of him: and
they, if they were aware of his movement,
were content to await his signal.
He gave the signal presently, and the
mares rose, their ears pricked, their nostrils
quivering. A light breeze blew across the
meadow from the north. The stallion faced
south, for his sensitive nose told him that
no foeman was approaching from the op-
posite direction. He knew that his ears had
not deceived him and that the sound which
he had heard was near at hand. But he did
not know the exact quarter from which the
sound had come ; and though his large eyes
were well adapted to the dim light, no-
where could he discern that sinister weaving
movement of the tall, close-growing grass
which would reveal the stealthy approach
of bear or puma. So, for some minutes, he
waited motionless, his head held high, every
faculty keyed to the utmost.
Twenty yards away down the wind
Corane the Raven, young warrior of the
Cherokees, crouching low in the grass,
watched the wild stallion eagerly. Himself
invisible, he could see his quarry more and
more plainly as the light grew stronger;
and he knew already that the wits of this
slim, long-maned chestnut hotrse, which
had come over the mountains from the
west, were worthy of his beauty and
strength. With all his art — and the Raven
prided himself on his skill as a still-hunter
— and with all the conditions in his favor,
he had been baffled. Having located the beds
of the wild horses, he had left his own
horse, Monito-Kinibic, at the edge of the
woods and had crept through the grass as
furtively as a lynx. But his approach had
been detected when he was yet five lance-
lengths distant, and since then the stallion
had made no false move, had committed
no error of judgment.
of the Wild -ifii
Corane the Raven knew the wild horses
well. Most of them were small and wiry,
already approaching the mustang type of
later years; but in those early days, before
inbreeding had proceeded very far, an oc-
casional stallion still revealed unmistakably
the fine qualities of blooded forebears. From
his hiding place in the grass the young
warrior, naked except for a light loincloth
of deer-hide, studied the great chestnut
carefully, thoughtfully, marvelling at the
lithe symmetry of his powerful but beau-
tifully moulded form, admiring his coolness
and steadiness in the face of danger. The
stallion showed no sign of fear. He did not
fidget or caper nervously. Only his head
moved slowly back and forth, while with
all his powers of sight, scent and hearing
he strove to locate the precise spot where his
enemy was lurking.
The Raven smiled in approval; and
presently he applied a test of another kind.
With his long spear he pushed the grass
stems in front of him, causing the tops of
the tall blades to quiver and wave. The
movement was slight; yet even in the pale
morning light the wild horse saw it. He
watched the spot intently for some
moments. Then he moved slowly and
cautiously forward, the mares following in
his tracks. He moved neither toward the
danger nor away from it. Instead, he circled
it, and the Raven realized at once what the
stallion's purpose was. He intended to get
down wind from the suspected spot, so that
his nose could tell him whether an enemy
hid there, and, if so, what kind of enemy
it was.
The young warrior waited, curious to
see the outcome. Suddenly the stallion's
head jerked upward. He was well down the
wind now and a puil of air had filled his
nostrils with the manscent. A moment he
262
Herbert Ravenel Sass
stood at gaze; and in that moment one of
the mares caught the tell-tale scent, snorted
with terror and bolted at full speed. Close
behind her raced the other mare; while the
stallion, wheeling gracefully, followed at
a slower pace, his eyes searching the grassy
plain ahead.
The Raven had risen to his feet and stood
in plain view, but the chestnut stallion
scarcely glanced at him again. He was no
longer a menace. Of greater importance
now were other dangers unknown, in-
visible, yet possibly imminent.
The natural meadows of lush grass and
maiden cane were perilous places for the
unwary. In them the puma set his am-
bush; there the black bear often lurked;
hidden in that dense cover, the Indian
horse-hunter sometimes waited with their
snares. The mares, in a frenzy of panic,
were beyond their protector's control. Their
nostrils full of the man-smell, they had
forgotten all other perils. But the stallion
had not forgotten. Before the mares had
run fifty yards the thing that he feared
happened.
Out of the grass a black bulk heaved
upward, reared high with huge hairy arms
outspread, fell forward with a deep grunt-
ing roar on the haunch of the foremost
mare. Screaming like a mad thing, the
mare reeled, staggered and went down.
In a fraction of a second she was on her
feet again, but the big mountain black bear,
hurling himself on her hindquarters,
crushed them to the ground.
Corane the Raven, racing forward at the
sound of the mare's frenzied scream, was
near enough to see part of what happened.
He saw the wild stallion rear to his utmost
height and come down with battering fore-
feet on the bear's back. He heard the stal-
lion's loud squeal of fury, the bear's hoarse
grunt of rage and pain. Next moment the
mare was up again and running for her
life, the stallion cantering easily behind
her.
When the Raven reached the spot the
bear had vanished; and the young Indian,
marvelling at what he had seen, ran toward
the woods-edge where his swift roan,
Manito-Kinibic, awaited him.
In this way began the chase of the chest-
nut stallion — Northwind, as he was after-
ward known — that long hunt which Corane
the Raven made long ago, even before the
time of Atta-Kulla-Kulla the Wise. It was
Dunmore the trader who first brought
down from the Overhills the story of that
hunt and told it one night in Nick Roun-
der's tavern in Charles Town. Dunmore
had it from the Raven himself; and the
Raven was known among the white traders
and hunters as a truthful man. But he was
known also as a man of few words, while
Dunmore, great hunter and famous Indian
fighter though he was, had a tongue more
fluent than a play-actor's.
So it was probably Dunmore who put
color into the story, and undoubtedly his
quick brain, well warmed with rum that
night in the tavern, filled in many details.
The tale appealed to him, for he was a lover
of horses; and this story of the feud be-
tween Northwind, the wild stallion, and
Manito-Kinibic, the Raven's roan, con-
cerned two horses which were paladins of
their kind.
For the hunt which began that morning
in Long Meadow became in large measure
a contest between these two. It happened
that the Raven had returned not long before
from a peace mission to the Choctaws, and
while in their country he had heard of the
wonderful wild horse which was said to
The Way
have in him the blood of the Prince Soto's
steed and which had vanished from the
savannahs after defying all attempts to
capture him. In the Overhills v^ild horses
v^ere rare. When the Raven found the
tracks of three of them near Long Meadow
about sunset one May day, he thought it
worth while to sleep that night near the
meadow's edge and have a look at the
horses in the morning.
So at dawn he had tried to stalk them in
their beds; and the moment he saw the
wild stallion rise from his sleeping place
in the grass he knew that the great chestnut
horse of which the Choctaws had spoken
stood before him. That morning in Long
Meadow he knew also that he could not
rest until he had taken this matchless wild
horse for his own.
It would be a long hunt, for the stallion
would not linger in the Overhills. Small
bands of wild horses occasionally crossed
the mountains from the west, and always
these migrating bands travelled fast, paus-
ing only to feed. Yet, though the hunt
might carry him far, Corane the Raven, as
he ran swiftly across Long Meadow toward
the woods-edge where he had left Manito-
Kinibic, had little doubt as to its issue. This
wild stallion was a great horse, beautiful,
swift and strong — by far the finest wild
horse that the Raven had ever seen. But
there was one other that was his equal in
all things except beauty; and that other
was Manito-Kinibic, the Raven's roan.
There was no chief of the Cherokees, the
Creeks or the Choctaws who had a horse
that could match Manito-Kinibic. His like
had never been known in the Overhills.
Dunmore the trader had seen him and had
wondered whence he came; for though the
Raven had taken him from the Chicka-
saws, whose country lay west of the moun-
of the Wild 263
tains, it was plain that this big-boned burly
roan was not of the Western or Southern
wild breed, while his name, which in the
white man's tongue meant Rattlesnake, had
to Dunmore's ear a Northern sound.
Thick-bodied, wide-headed, short-maned,
heavy-eared, Manito-Kinibic was almost
grotesquely ugly; yet in his very ugliness
there was a sinister, almost reptilian fas-
cination, heightened by the metallic sheen
of his red-speckled coat, the odd flatness of
his head and the fixed stony glare of his
small, deep-set eyes. No warrior of the
Cherokees except the Raven could ride him.
Few could even approach him, for his
temper was as arrogant as that of the royal
serpent for which he was named.
There lurked in him, too, a craftiness
recalling the subtle cunning which the red
men attributed to the rattlesnake and be-
cause of which they venerated the king of
serpents almost as a god; and with this
craftiness he harbored a savage hatred of
the wild creatures which the Indians
hunted, so that on the hunt he was even
more eager, even more relentless than his
rider. It was the Raven's boast that Manito-
Kinibic could follow a trail which would
baffle many a red hunter; that he could
scent game at a greater distance than the
wolf; that his ears were as keen as those
of the deer; that he was as crafty as the
fox and as ruthless as the weasel; and that
he feared no wild beast of the forest, not
even the puma himself.
Such was the horse that Corane the
Raven rode on his long hunt. From the
beginning of that himt until its end Manito-
Kinibic seemed to live for one thing only —
the capture of the wild stallion whose scent
he snufled for the first time that morning
in Long Meadow after the wild horse's en-
counter with the bear.
264
Herbert Ravenel Sass
A few minutes after that encounter, the
Raven had reached the woods-edge where
he had left the big roan, had vaulted upon
his back and, riding as swiftly as was
prudent through the tall grass and beds
of maiden cane, had struck the trail of the
three wild horses near the spot where they
had passed from the meadow at its lower
end into the woods.
The trail was plain to the eye. The scent
was strong where the wild horses had
brushed through the rank grass. From that
moment Manito-Kinibic knew what game
it was that his rider hunted; and in diat
moment all the strange smouldering hatred
of his nature was focused upon the wild
stallion which, as his nose told him, had
passed that way with one or two mares.
Manito-Kinibic leaped forward with long
bounds, his nostrils dilated, his ears flat-
tened against his head. Corane the Raven,
smiling grimly, let him go. It might be
true, as the Choctaws believed, that the wild
stallion was sprung from the mighty horse
of the Prince Soto himself. But surely this
huge implacable horse that now followed
on the wild one's trail must have in his
veins the blood of the great black steed
which the Evil Spirit bestrode when he
stood, wrapped in cloud, on the bare sum-
mit of Younaguska peak and hurled those
awful arrows of his that flashed like
lightning.
Northwind, the chestnut stallion, had
passed within sight of Younaguska, highest
of the Balsams, which men in these days
call Caney Fork Bald; but that sombre
mountain lay far behind him now, for he
had crossed both the main ranges of the
mountain bulwark and had begun to des-
cend the eastern slope of the second and
following in general the trend of the val-
leys and the downward-sloping ridges. The
injured mare, though her haunch was raw
and bloody where the bear's claws had
raked it, kept pace with her companions;
and the three travelled fast, pausing only
once or twice to drink at some cold, clear,
hemlock-shaded stream.
For the most part their course carried
them through a virgin forest of oak, chest-
nut, hickory and other broad-leaved trees,
clothing the ridges, the slopes and most of
the valleys. Occasionally the stallion chose
his own way, though as a rule he followed
the narrow trails made by the deer; but
when in the early forenoon he found a
broader path through the woods, well-
marked and evidently often used, he turned
into it unhesitatingly and followed it with-
out swerving. The wild horse of the south-
western savannahs recognized this path at
once. It was one of the highways of the
buffalo herds, a road trodden deep and hard
through many centuries by thousands of
hoofs.
The buffalo were far less abundant now
on the eastern side of the mountains. Al-
though the white men's settlements were
still confined to a strip along the coast,
white hunters sometimes penetrated the
foothills and white traders encouraged the
taking of pelts. The deer still abounded in
almost incredible numbers, but the eastern
buffalo herds were withdrawing gradually
across the Appalachians. Small droves, how-
ever, still ranged the eastern foothills and
kept open the deep-worn paths; and the
main buffalo roads across the mountain
barrier, wider than the narrow buffalo ruts
of the Western plains, were still highways
for wild creatures of many kinds. It was
lesser range. From Long Meadow he led one of these main roads that the chestnut
bis mares southeastward at a steady gait, stallion and his mares were following; a
The Way
load which would lead them with many
windings down from the mountains into
the hills and through the hills to the broad
belt of rolling lands beyond which lay the
swamps and savannahs of the Atlantic
plain.
All that forenoon the Raven trailed his
quarry. Both to the roan stallion and to his
rider the trail was a plain one; and when
the tracks of the wild horses turned into
the buffalo path, the Raven knew that he
had only to follow that highway through
the woods. With a guttural word he re-
strained Manito-Kinibic's savage eagerness.
So long as the wild horses kept to the
buffalo road the task of following them
would be simple. The Raven preferred that
for the present the chestnut stallion should
not know that he was pursued.
Half a bowshot ahead of the young war-
rior a troop of white-tails crossed the path,
following a deer trail leading down the
slope to a laurel-bordered stream. Once, at
a greater distance, he saw a puma come out
of the woods into the path, sit for a moment
on its haunches, then vanish at a bound
into the forest on the other side. Again and
again wild turkeys ran into the woods on
either hand, seldom taking wing; and with
monotonous regularity ruffed grouse rose a
few paces in front of him and whirred
swiftly away.
About noon he killed a cock grouse in
the path, pinning the bird to the ground
with a light cane arrow tipped with bone;
and he had scarcely remounted when
around a curve of the path appeared the
shaggy bulk of a huge buffalo bull. A mo-
ment the great beast stood motionless,
blinking in astonishment, his massive head
hanging low. Then, with surprising nim-
bleness, he turned and darted around the
bend of the trail.
of the Wild 265
The Raven heard the stamping and
trampling of many hoofs and gave Manito-
Kinibic his head. The roan bounded for-
ward and almost in an instant reached the
bend of the path. At a word from his rider
he halted; and the Raven, quivering with
excitement, gazed with shining eyes upon a
spectacle which sent the blood leaping
through his veins — a herd of twenty buffalo
pouring out of the path, crowding and
jostling one another as they streamed down
the mountainside through the woods, fol-
lowing a deer trail which crossed the buf-
falo road almost at right angles. Twice the
young warrior bent his bow and drew the
shaft to the head; and twice he lowered
his weapon, unwilling to kill game which
he must leave to the wolves.
Afternoon came and still the Raven rode
on through the teeming mountain forest,
following the deep-worn highway which
the migrating herds through unknown
centuries had carved across the Overhills.
More keenly than ever now his eyes
searched the path ahead. The wild stallion
and his mares had probably grazed abun-
dantly in Long Meadow before their early
morning rest and had been interrupted;
but by this time they should be hungry
again, for since leaving Long Meadow they
had not stopped to feed. Wherever the
Raven saw the forest open a little ahead of
him so that grass grew under the far-spaced
trees, he halted and listened carefully. Be-
fore long in one of these grassy places he
should find the tliree wild horses grazing,
and he wished to avoid frightening them.
The path, which heretofore had wound
around the mountain shoulders, dipped
suddenly into a deep gorge-like valley at the
bottom of which a torrent roared. The
forest here was close and dark. The wild
horses would not halt in this valley, for
266
Herbert Ravenel Sass
there was no grass to be had; and for a
time the Raven relaxed his vigilance, letting
his eyes stray from the path ahead.
From a tall hemlock on the mountainside
a wild gobbler took wing, sailing obliquely
across the valley, and the Raven saw an
eagle, which had been perching on a dead
tulip poplar, launch himself forward in
swift pursuit. The young brave turned on
his horse's back, gazing upward over his
shoulder, eagerly watching the chase.
Without warning, Manito-Kinibic reared,
swerved to the right and plunged forward.
His rider, taken utterly by surprise, lurched
perilously, yet somehow kept his seat. For
an instant, as Manito-Kinibic reared again,
the Raven saw a sinewy naked arm raised
above a hideous grinning face daubed with
vermilion and black. Steel-fingered hands
clutched the Raven's leg; on the other side
another hand clawed at his thigh. Out from
the thicket into the path ahead leaped
three more warriors, feathered and plumed
with eagle-tails and hawk-wings, striped
and mottled with the red and black paint
of war. More dreadful than the hunting
cry of the puma, the shrill war-whoop of
the Muskogee split the air.
But for Manito-Kinibic the Rattlesnake,
the chase of the chestnut stallion would
have ended then. But the Muskogee war-
party which waylaid Corane the Raven in
the pass, hoping to take him alive for
slavery or the torture, failed to reckon with
the temper and strength of the mighty roan.
In an instant Manito-Kinibic had become
a rearing, snorting fury, a raging devil of
battering hoofs and gleaming teeth. The
Raven saw one Muskogee go down before
the plunging roan stallion. He saw another
whose shoulder was red with something
that was not war paint. He saw the three
warriors in the path ahead leap for their
lives into the thicket as Manito-Kinibic
charged down upon them. Bending low on
his horse's neck, he heard an arrow speed
over him and, a half-second later, another
arrow. Then, remembering that he was the
son of a war captain, he rose erect, looked
back, and flourishing the hand which still
held his bow and spear, hurled at his
enemies the Cherokee whoop of triumph.
Thenceforward for a time the Raven
watched the path behind rather than the
path ahead. The war parties of the Musko-
gee were often mounted, and the young
Cherokee thought it likely that this party
had horses concealed in the thickets near
the path. They would probably pursue him,
but with Manito-Kinibic under him he was
safe. Yet for a while he gave the sure-footed
roan his head, racing onward as swiftly
as the uneven surface of the trail allowed.
So it happened that he was driven by neces-
sity into doing the thing which he had
intended to avoid.
A mile beyond the scene of the ambush
the valley widened. Here, encircled by
forested heights, lay a level, sunrbathed
meadow, sweet with clover and wild pea
vine. Northwind and his mares had trav-
elled far and fast. Urged on by his restless
eagerness to get out of the dark forbidding
mountains, perhaps impelled, too, by some
mysterious premonition of danger, the great
chestnut horse had permitted no halt for
food. In this beautiful vivid green oasis in
the wilderness of woods he halted at last.
The meadow was dotted with grazing
deer. Clearly no enemy lurked there. With
a joyful whinny Northwind turned aside
from the path and led his consorts to the
feast.
A half-hour later, an instant before the
wariest of the whitetails had caught the
warning sound, the wild stallion raised his
The Way
head suddenly, listened intently for a mo-
ment, then, with a peremptory summons
to the mares, trotted slowly with high head
and tail toward the lower end of the mea-
dow. Because wild creatures do not ordi-
narily rush headlong through the forest, he
miscalculated the speed of the intruder
whose hoof -beats he had heard. He was still
near the middle of the meadow, while the
mares, loath to leave the clover beds, were
far behind him, when he saw the Raven on
Manito-Kinibic dash out of the woods.
The young brave heard the wild stallion's
snort of surprise, saw him leap forward and
race for the buffalo path, while the mares
wheeled and galloped off to the left. In
long beautiful bounds the stallion skimmed
over the grass to the meadow's lower end
where the path reentered the forest. There
he disappeared amid the trees.
The damage having been done, the
Raven let Manito-Kinibic do his best for
two or three miles. But the wild horse ran
like the north wind which blows across
the summit of Unaka Kanoos. It was then
that the Raven named him, in honor of
that north wind which is the swiftest and
keenest of all the winds of the mountains.
Until his rider checked him, Manito-Kinibic
ran a good race. But they saw the wild stal-
lion no more that day.
Even among the Cherokees, great hun-
ters and marvelously skilful trackers, it was
considered a noteworthy thing that Corane
the Raven and Manito-Kinibic the Rattle-
snake were able to follow the trail of the
chestnut stallion all the way from the east-
ern slope of the Overhills to the Low
Country of the Atlantic coast, more than
two hundred miles as the white man
reckons distance. Certain circumstances
aided the pursuers. Nearly always North-
of the Wild 267
wind kept to the game paths. Until he was
well out of the mountains he followed the
buffalo road. For many miles through the
upper foothills he used the narrow paths
trodden out by the deer. Always he chose
those paths which led him south or south-
east, following the slope of the land.
When he passed from the foothills into
the rolling country where the forest was
more open and where many prairie-mea-
dows lay embosomed in the woods, the
Raven's problem was somewhat harder;
and in the Low Country of the coastal
plain, so utterly unlike his mountain home,
there were moments when the young war-
rior saw defeat staring him in the face. Yet
it was evident that the wild stallion himself
was not at home in this land of dense
cypress swamps and towering pinewoods,
of vast canebrakes and wide wastes of
rushes, of dark sluggish rivers winding
silently through moss-draped mysterious
forests.
If this was the land which some deej>
seated instinct had impelled him to seek,
it was evidently not what he had expected
it to be — ^not a land like that which he had
known westward of the mountains. It was
rich beyond measure, affording pasturage
of numerous kinds. But in many respects
it was strange to him, and his first night
within its borders taught him that it brisded
with dangers.
He rested diat night near the end of a
long woods-prairie or open savannah close
to a tall canebrake bordering a great
swamp. In the late afternoon he had grazed
in the savannah amid herds of deer and
flocks of tiall gray cranes. The air was
melodious with the songs of numberless
birds. Over him, as he cropped the grass,
passed many wild turkeys coming in from
the woods to their roosts in the giant pines
268 Herbert Ravenel Sass
of the swamp. Around the margins of a
marshy pond scores of graceful milk-white
egrets walked to and fro amid hundreds
of smaller herons of darker plumage. To
the stallion it seemed that he had come
to a land of plenty and of peace where
no enemies lurked.
The night revealed his mistake. The
swamp rang with the cries and roars of
hunting beasts and widi the long-drawn
resonant bellowings of great alligators — a
fearful chorus of the wilderness such as he
had never heard before. Twice he saw
round fiery eyes glaring at him out of the
darkness. Once his nose told him that near
at hand in die canebrake a puma was pass-
ing along one of the winding pathways
through the canes. Sleep was impossible;
yet, the night being very black, he judged
it unsafe to move, fearing to run upon an
invisible enemy. He spent the long hours
standing, tense and rigid, his senses strained
to the utmost, expecting each moment to
feel the fangs or claws of some unknown
foe.
How long the chestnut stallion remained
in the wild swamp region of the Low
Country cannot be told. Probably not long,
for while food was abundant, the perils
were too many. Nor can it be related how
he avoided those perils and found his way
at last to the edge of the wide salt marshes
between the Low Country mainland and
the barrier islands along the sea. Day after
day Corane the Raven and Manito-Kinibic
the Rattlesnake followed him in his wan-
derings; and day after day the Raven,
patient with the long patience of his race,
held fast to the resolution which he had
formed at the beginning — the resolution not
to attempt the capture of the wild stallion
until the time should be fully ripe.
He had to wait long for that time, but
in one respect fortune favored the young
warrior. Except for the Muskogee ambush
in the mountain pass, he suffered no inter-
ference at the hands of man and, indeed,
saw scarcely a human face betv/een the
Overhills and the coast. Even when he had
reached the white men's country — where,
however, die settlements were still small
and sparse — the wild horse's fear of human
enemies kept both himself and his pursuers
out of man's way. The spot where the long
chase had its ending was as lonely as the
remotest wilderness.
To North wind, after his long journey,
that spot seemed a paradise. To Corane the
Raven, viewing it cautiously from the cover
of the woods about noon of a warm cloud-
less June day, it seemed to combine all the
conditions essential for his success. A dry
level meadow carpeted with short thick
grass and shaped like a broad spearhead lay
between a converging river and creek which
came together at the meadow's lower end.
There, and for some distance along the
shore, the land sloped sharply to the river,
forming a little bluff about ten feet in
height; while beyond the river lay vast
marshes stretching for miles toward the
hazy line of woods on the barrier isles.
The Raven took in these things at a
glance; noted, too, with satisfaction that
here and there in the meadow stood clumps
of some dense, stiff-branched bush of a kind
unknown in the mountains. Then, well
pleased, his plan complete to the smallest
detail, he let his eyes rest again upon that
feature of the scene which was the most
important and most gratifying of all.
Almost in the center of the meadow stood
Northwind, the wild stallion, alert, ar-
rogant, confident, a picture of lithe, clean-
cut beauty and perfectly proportioned
strength. But he no longer stood alone. Just
The Way
beyond him grazed five mares, all of them
bays and all of them of one size and build.
The Raven knew at once that they v^ere not
wild horses and he surmised that they were
strays from the white men's stock. But it
mattered little whence they had come. The
essential fact was that North wind had taken
them as his own, had become their master
and protector.
Two hours before midnight, when the
moon, almost at the full, swung high above
the marshes beyond the river and the grassy
expanse of the meadow was bathed in
ghostly light, the Raven led Manito-Kinibic
from his hiding place in the woods to the
edge of the open. There the young brave
halted. The big roan, his nostrils tingling
with a scent which set his blood on fire,
needed no word of instruction. He knew
his part and would play it perfectly. Quiver-
ing with eagerness, yet too well trained to
give way to the fury that possessed him,
Manito-Kinibic moved out into the meadow
at a slow walk, his hoofs making no sound.
The Raven waited until the roan had
become a dim uncertain shape in the moon-
light). Then, crouching low, the Indian
stole to the nearest bush-clump, thence to
another isolated thicket, and thence by a
roundabout course to a third. He was half-
way down the meadow when he heard the
wild stallion's challenge and knew that
Manito-Kinibic's keen nose had led the roan
straight to his goal. Bending close to the
ground, sometimes creeping on all fours,
sometimes crawling like a snake, the Raven
moved from bush-clump to bush-clump
toward the sound.
A fresh breeze blew from the sea across
the marshes. The wild stallion, resting with
his mares near the meadow's lower end
where the creek and river joined, could
of the Wild 2C/J
neither smell nor hear an enemy approach-
ing from the direction of the woods.
Manito-Kinibic was scarcely fifty paces dis-
tant when Northwind saw him.
A moment the wild horse stood at gaze,
his muscles tense for the long leap which
would launch him forward in swift flight.
Then fear passed out of him and fury took
its place. A glance had shown him what
the intruder was — a lone stallion, riderless,
unaccompanied by man, roaming at will
and evidently seeking the bay mares. Loud
and shrill rang Northwind's challenge. In-
stantly he charged his foe.
Manito-Kinibic the Rattlesnake was a
veteran of many battles. The fiercest battle
of his career was the one which he fought
that night in the moonlit meadow where
the long chase of the chestnut stallion had
its end. Northwind, too, had conquered
many rivals to make good his mastery of
the wild horse herds; but never before had
he faced an antagonist as formidable as the
burly roan. With Manito-Kinibic lay the
advantage of size and weight ; with the wild
horse the advantage of quickness and
agility. In courage neither surpassed the
other. In cunning each v^^s the other's
match.
Almost at once they took each other's
measure and, despite their fury, fought with
instinctive skill, each striving to utilize to
the utmost those powers in which he ex-
celled. After his first whirlwind charge,
Northwind did not charge again. He knew
after that first onset that he must not hurl
himself recklessly against the roan's weight
and bulk. This was an enemy too big to be
overwhelmed ; he must be cut to pieces with
slashing hoofs and torn to ribbons with
ripping, raking teeth. Hence the wild stal-
lion whirled and circled, feinted and reared,
dashed in and leaped clear again, like a
270
Herbert Ravenel Sass
skilful rapier-man whose opponent wields
a broadsword — and wields it well.
For Manito-Kinibic was no blundering
bruiser whose sole reliance was his strength.
He, too, fought with cunning and skill,
manoeuvring with a lightness which belied
his bulk, parrying and thrusting with an
adroitness not much inferior to that of his
opponent. But, apparently realizing the
advantage which his weight gave him, he
strove from the first for close quarters.
Furiously, incessantly he forced the fight-
ing, seeking to grip and hold his elusive
enemy, rearing high to crush the wild
horse with his battering hoofs, plunging
forward with all his weight to drive his
mighty shoulder against his foe and hurl
him to the ground.
It was a fight too furious to last long. A
stallion's hoofs and teeth are fearful weap-
ons. A few minutes more must have brought
a bloody end to the battle, though no man
can say what that end would have been.
Suddenly from a bush-clump a shadow
darted, sped lightly across the grass, and
vanished in a tuft of tall weeds. Northwind
did not see it because it was behind him.
If Manito-Kinibic saw it he gave no sign.
The battling stallions wheeled and
reared, biting and plunging, striking with
their forefeet, thrusting, parrying, feinting.
Once more the roan hurled himself for-
ward, his small eyes gleaming red, his teeth
bared, his heavy hoofs stabbing the air; and
once more his slim, long-maned opponent,
light as a dancer, lithe as a panther, whirled
aside, escaping destruction by an inch.
Again, as they fenced for an opening,
rearing high, snorting and squealing, the
wild horse's back was turned to the clump
of weeds; and again the shadow darted
forward, swiftly, noiselessly, gliding over
the turf.
The next moment Corane the Raven
crouched close behind the chestnut stallion.
A half-second more, and he had swung
his rawhide thong with the skill for which
he was famous. Then, with a shout, he
leaped for Manito-Kinibic's head.
Northwind was down. He lay on his side,
motionless as a dead thing. The rawhide
thong, weighted at its ends, was wrapped
around his hind legs, binding them tightly
together. The greatest miracle was not the
skill with which the Raven had thrown his
snare. More wonderful still was the quell-
ing of Manito-Kinibic's battle-fury, the
swiftness with which his master brought
the raging roan under control. Yet this was
merely the result of teaching, of long pains-
taking instruction. Corane the Raven, the
most successful horse-hunter among the
Cherokees, owed his success partly to the
peculiar methods which he employed and
partly to the perfect training of his famous
roan.
Manito-Kinibic, his neck and shoulders
bloody, his flanks heaving, stood quietly,
gazing down at his fallen foe with eyes in
which the fire of hatred still glowed; but
Northwind, his silky sides streaked with
red, lay inert, inanimate, seeming scarcely
to breathe. He offered no resistance as the
Raven with deft fingers slipped a strong
hobble around the slim forelegs and made
it fast above each fetlock. There was no
terror, no fierceness in the wild horse's
large eyes. Instead they seemed singularly
calm and soft, as though the brain behind
them were lulled with a vision of places far
away and days long ago.
Yet, if the chestnut stallion, a prisoner
at last, dreamed of some green, daisy-
sprinkled forest-prairie beyond the moun-
tains, the dream passed quickly. Presently
The Way
the Raven removed the thong which had
held Northw^ind's hind legs helpless; and
instantly the w^ild horse came to life, panic-
stricken, furious, frantic for his freedom.
For a moment he thought himself free.
His hind legs v^ere no longer bound. The
hobble around his forelegs bound them only
loosely. With a snort he heaved upward and
leaped away in mad flight — only to pitch
headlong to the ground with a force which
almost drove the breath from his body. Up
he scrambled once more and down again
he plunged as his fettered forelegs crumpled
under him. Five times he rose and five times
he fell before he seemed to realize his
helplessness.
For several minutes, then, he lay utterly
still. The Raven had remounted Manito-
Kinibic. The wild horse could not escape;
yet it was well to be prepared for whatever
might happen. The ordeal might be over in
an hour, or, on the other hand, many hours
might pass before Northwind's spirit was
broken.
At last he struggled to his feet. The
Raven circled him on the roan, watching
him keenly. The captive's frenzy seemed to
have passed. He was cooler now, steadier
on his legs. Sudden anxiety which was al-
most panic gripped the young Indian. He
recalled that once he had seen a hobbled
wild horse travel a distance of half a bow-
shot in short labored bounds before falling;
and in a flash he had become aware of a
danger hitherto unrealized.
Quickly he slipped from Manito-Kinibic's
back and approached Northwind from be-
hind, uncoiling the weighted rawhide
thong which he had removed from the
wild stallion's hind legs. He would snare
those hind legs again and thus make certain
of his captive.
By a margin of moments he was too late.
of the Wild 271
Northwind wheeled, bounded forward, and
this time he did not fall. He had learned
what not one hobbled wild horse in a
thousand ever discovered — that while a leap
of normal length would throw him every
time, he could travel at least a little distance
at fair speed if his leaps were very short.
Another bound he made, another and
another — stiff-legged, labored, heart-break-
ing — keeping his balance by a miracle. He
was more than halfway to the river's edge
when the hobble threw him, and though
he fell heavily, almost in an instant he was
on his feet again, bounding onward as
before. .
On the very verge of the low bluff the
Raven, who had remounted as quickly as
possible, drove Manito-Kinibic against the
chestnut's flank in a last attempt to turn
or throw him. Reeling from the blow,
Northwind staggered on the brink. Then,
rallying his strength for a supreme effort,
he plunged sideways down the steep slope,
and the water closed over him.
Some say he was drowned. The Raven
never saw him again, though the moon
shone brightly on the river. But the water
is very deep beside that bluff and there the
ebb tide is very strong and swift. It might
have borne him quickly beyond the Indian's
vision; and since the hobble allowed his
forelegs some freedom of action, he might
have made shift to swim.
At any rate, when Dunmore the trader
told the story of the chesmut stallion that
night in Nick Rounder's tavern, an old
sea-faring man, who was present, pricked
up his ears and asked the trader certain
questions. Then, with a great show of
wonder and a string of sailor's oaths, he
spun a queer yarn.
One midnight, he said, while his ship
lyi
Herbert Ravenel Sass
lay at anchor in a river-mouth between two
barrier islands, the lookout sighted a big
chestnut horse coming down the river with
the tide. They manned a boat, got a rope
over the horse's head and towed him to the
sandy island shore. He seemed almost ex-
hausted, his neck and shoulders were cut
and bruised, and how he had come into
the river was a mystery since his forelegs
were hobbled. They could not take the
horse aboard their vessel; so, after cutting
the hobble, they left him lying on tlie beach,
apparently more dead *than alive. They
expected to see his body there in the morn-
ing, but when they weighed anchor at
sunrise he was gone.
Dunmore believed the old man's story;
but others held that he had Invented the
tale on the spur of the moment, in the hope
that the trader would stand him a noggin
of rum. However that may be, an odd
legend exists today on the barrier islands
of the Carolina coast.
The story runs that the slim wiry ponies
of those islands, rovers of the beaches and
marsh flats, have in their veins the blood of
De Soto's Andalusian horses abandoned
nearly four centuries ago in the Mississippi
wilderness six hundred miles away, beyond
the mountains.
It seems a fantastic legend; yet the river
in which Northwind made his last desperate
bid for freedom passes quickly to the sea
between two of those barrier isles.
CHARLES TENNEY JACKSON (1874- )
The Horse of Hurricane Reef
from SHORT STORIES (September, 1922)
Here is a magnificently dramatic piece of writing, so real that the reader
finds himself struggling for his life in the flood. The story builds up
to a tremendous climax not spoiled by a conventional ending.
K]rN
■^he mares are for whoever is man
enough to take them," retorted
Jean Abadie from the bow of the
barge which the towing launch was shoving
into the mud shoal on the bay side of lie
Dautrive. "Rojas has given them up. The
white stallion killed his son, Emile, four
years ago. No man of the camps around
the bay will land on this reef; he has a
name, that wild white devil!"
"You see, M'sieu Lalande, it is not steal-
ing," added Pierre as he stopped the motor
and looked at the stranger in the stern seat.
"It is stealing," grunted Joe Lalande,
"else why do we come under cover of a
storm to rope the colts and mares? Well,
no matter. Once we get them aboard and
up to the Mississippi plantations, I will
show you something, you shrimp-seine
Cajans. Throwing a rope, eh? Over west-
ward they never yet showed me a horse I
could not break."
The two seine-haulers from Sanchez's
platform looked at him doubtfully. "Over
westward," to the men of Barataria Bay,
began at the dim marsh shore and stretched
to infinity. A native never ventured so far;
out there anything might be possible. But
no man had faced the exiled king of Dau-
trive reef. Pierre muttered again how they
would get the young mares — they would
first shoot the white stallion. It was the
hurricane month; they knew well enough
that an obliterating sea would come this
week over the dunes and marshes. Old
Rojas, living widi his grandchildren,
orphaned by the white brute's savagery, on
the far west point of the island, would
never know what happened to the five
mares and colts. More than once the ^ales
off the Gulf had left the shell-beached
chenaies far up the bay strewn with the
dead cattle of the people of the reefs.
The big Lalande laughed as he followed
through the salt grass to the first low dunes.
"Shoot him ! You'll shoot no horse with me !
You say he's so bad; show him to me! I'll
rope and load him, too, my friends, or
he will finish me. If we lift Rojas's animals
we take 'em all."
The Cajans laughed in nervous disbelief.
Lalande, a native, also, who had returned
27^
274
Charles Tenney ]ac\son
this season to haul seine in Sanchez's com-
pany, might have been a great man with
the pitching broncos he told of, but Rojas's
great white stallion — well, this boaster
would see! The brute would allow no seine-
crew to land on He Dautrive; they told of
his charging upon the fishing skiffs clear
out to the surf line. Sanchez, the boss, had
shot him once as he fled to his lugger,
leaving the bleeding stallion to rend and
trample an abandoned seine.
Gratidpere Rojas, in his camp across the
shoal depression that cut through the reef,
had never tried to reclaim the wild mares
and the colts of the white stud's breed. The
generations of them lived on the coarse reef
grass and the rain pools; an oysterman
had no use for horses, anyhow. His son,
Emile, had tried this foolish experiment
of raising horses on the reef, and given his
life under the stallion's hoofs. Grandpere
had shrugged and let the breed go wild;
yet, as Lalande muttered when Jean and
Pierre proposed to use his skill in lifting
the younger animals, the horses were his
to the scrawniest colt. But Lalande had
come. He would show these shrimpers;
and even if they only roped and dragged
the least unruly to the barge, Lalande could
break them and Pierre sell them to the
plantations. Yet it was horse stealing. La-
lande would not gloss that over, but some-
thing else had drawn him here — the stories
the islanders told of the white stallion's
savagery.
"Old Rojas's son, I will be the avenger,"
he grunted, sullenly, and came on the day
Pierre had chosen for the secret raid.
Abadie had stopped in the sandy trail
broken through the mangroves to the top
of the sand ridge. ''Bon Dieur he whis-
pered, pointing. "His track, Lalande! Big
as a bucket! Eh, bienl I'd rather face a
hurricane than this white tiger!"
Lalande had stepped out in the open
sand patch. From here the dunes fell away
to the Gulf beach. Already the sea was
rising. Between Dautrive and the outer bar
curious, oily currents were twisting in un-
wonted directions, and beyond them the
surf broke in white, serried teeth gleaming
against the black southeast. The sky was
ribboned in black lines streaming northerly;
the wind came in fitful smashes against the
mangrove thickets and then seemed sucked
up to howl in the writhing clouds.
"There'll have to be quick work," mut-
tered Pierre. "I tell you this is bad, this sea.
We waited too long, M'sieu Lalande. We
better be back across the bay, and try for
the colts another time."
Lalande's gray eyes narrowed surlily. He
straightened his powerful figure above the
wind-slanting bushes. The two shrimpers
had seemed to skulk in their protection.
Jean peered down the spray-driven shore-
line.
"If we can work one of the yearlings back
to the bayside, get him into the mud and
tall grass, M'sieu Lalande could use his
rope."
But Lalande had gone down the other
way. He was out in the open. They howled
at him. That was no way to do it! They
must stalk the colts. Nothing could be done
if the leader of the wild band saw them —
unless they killed him first. He would
charge a man on sight, he would wreck
a boat in the shoals.
Lalande was laughing, whirling his lariat
over the mangroves. "I see the mares, Jean!
They are crossing the ridge back of us.
Getting out of the wind. The big white
devil, there he is, th.V^
The Horse of
The two other raiders had crept back
through the brush. It was disconcerting to
find the animals crossing their trail behind.
"If he smells a man he will never let up on
us, Lalande," muttered Jean. "Kill him,
then!"
The white leader had crossed the trail
of the raiders. He turned, broke through
the brush, and gained the ridge forty yards
from them. Lalande could see him now
against the black skyline very plainly. A
tremendous brute towering above the others,
his shaggy mane flowing backward in the
wind, his muzzle outstretched, his neck
tensed until the powerful muscles bulged
the satin skin. He was suspicious; he stood
there a challenging figure to the storm,
but his eyes were roving watchfully into
the thickets as a tiger scenting prey.
Lalande glanced back. His comrades had
slunk below the mangroves. They were
brave, hardy men of the hurricane coast,
but the evil name of the sea horse of He
Dautrive seemed to hold them nerveless.
The horse was coming on along the top
of the ridge slowly crashing through the
brush with alert glances right and left.
His pink nostrils quivered, his iron-gray
tail raised and swept in the wind puffs.
"They will shoot," muttered Lalande. "If
he trails them the cowards will shoot." And
he stepped more in the open, and then
shouted, "Come, thieves, let the colts go!
I will need you on the throw-line to check
and choke this brute!" Breast-high in the
windswept thickets he was laughing and
coiling his rope. This was a foe for a strong
man who boasted!
The great horse suddenly upreared with
a neigh that was like the roar of a lion.
No man had so much as ever put finger on
him; he had beaten the brains from one,
broken the leg of another, and smashed
Hurricane Reef 275
two seine skiffs in the shallows for invaders.
He had been the lord of the reef. Now
he reared again and again as he plunged
through the mangroves watching for the
fugitives as a cat would a mouse under
a flimsy cover of straw.
His satiny flanks were toward Lalande;
apparently he had not yet discovered the
man behind him in this hunt for the others.
And then, out of pure panic as the white
stallion broke near him, Jean Abadie fired.
Lalande cursed and sprang down the slope
of dunes after them. He knew he would
need their help when he roped this horse;
it was no starveling cayuse of the Texas
range. But he saw now that the two is-
landers were skulking for the boat in the
last fringe of the mangroves. They would
never make it; out in the open the white
stallion would crush them both ere they
covered half the marsh grass, unless, in-
deed, they killed him.
The brute saw them now; he swerved in
a tremendous rush below the man on the
higher sand. Lalande was whirling his
rope, and when he heard the hiss of it
through the air he laughed, for he knew
the throw was true.
*'Eh, bien, devil! You and me!" He went
down sprawling, seeking a root of the
tough mangroves to snub the line. He
caught one, then it was jerked out; and he
went trundling and rolling over and over
through the sands, hanging to the lariat.
He might as well have roped a torpedo. The
horse was in the open now, rearing and
bucking, but with his savage eyes still on
the fugitives. They were floundering
through the water. Jean was jerking the
mooring-lines from the barge, and Pierre
poling the launch back from the swamp
grass. The stallion was surging on with the
line cutting deep in his neck, but they
Tfi
Charles Tenney ]achjon
could not see this iii the welter of spray
he threw in his charge.
Joe Lalande was on his back in the high
grass, bruised and dizzy from his ride on
the throw-rope. It was lying out taut
through the grass; and for a time the man
did not stir. The stallion was plunging
somewhere out there, still implacable with
fury to get at the shrimpers. Then Lalande
heard the first throb of the motor. They
were getting away, leaving him, then ? They
must think him killed — a good end for a
braggart who would rather fight the stud
than steal the mares!
He lay in the grass listening, without
even resentment. The wide reach of the
bay northward was flecked with white
surges rising between those curious oily
bulges of water, the first stir of the creeping
tides which come upon the Gulf shores be-
fore the hurricane winds. Lalande remem-
bered enough of his boyhood among the
island folk to know that. Pierre was right:
they had waited too long for this week of
storm to raid Rojas's wild horses.
He crept around on the jerking line.
Above the grass billows he saw the brute.
He was whirling madly in the shallows
fighting this strange, choking clutch on
his neck. Then he charged back up the
dunes, and Lalande barely had time to lie
out on the line ere he was dragged again.
But when the stallion plunged into the
thickets, no human strength could hold.
He felt his fingers breaking in the tangle
of rope and roots, his face ground into the
sand and pounded by showers of sand
from the brute's hoofs.
Lalande staggered to his feet presently,
cleared his eyes, and followed a crashing
trail over the sand ridge. Northward he
saw the launch rocking its way across the
pass with whip-like streamers of wind
hitting the water beyond. Everywhere the
coast folk would be debating whether to
quit their platform camps and take to the
luggers or trust to the oaks of the chenaies
and their moorings. The hurricane month,
and a sea coming up past Cuba ! He Derniere
had vanished under the waves; La Ca-
minada gone with six hundred souls; there
were traditions of the coast, but the natives
knew what a hurricane tide meant on the
low, loose sand islands that fringed the
Louisiana swamps.
Lalande paused on the highest ridge.
There was that sullen glister of the sea,
cut through with patches of white, and the
green-black horizon gaping to east and
west and blotting out with gray squalls.
The great wind had not come yet beyond
these first squadrons. The big man shrugged
as he regarded it. The hurricane tide was
shoving frothy fingers out over the shoals.
Across the sandy stretch westward he could
just see the shack camp of Grandpere Rojas
on the highest ridge of Dautrive. A few
ragged oaks showed white against the sky.
The old man ought to be leaving with his
orphaned grandchildren, taking his stout
oyster lugger and making for the solid land
fourteen miles north across the bay.
"It is no place for little ones," muttered
Lalande in the Cajan patois. "These people
never will leave quick enough before the
storms. I can see the old man's lugger still
riding behind the point. He is a fool, old
Rojas, afraid to put foot on this end of
the reef because of the white stud, but stub-
born against the sea which comes like a
million white horses."
He went warily on the crushed trail.
That throw-rope would foul somewhere in
the mangroves; that stallion would choke
himself to a stupor, for not all the strength
in the world can avail against lungs bursting
The Horse of
for air. Then he saw the mares. They were
huddled in a hollow of the dunes, the colts
about them as if confused, uncertain, their
shaggy coats rufHed in the wind. That
wind was moaning now, high and far ; not
so bad here on the reef, but striking in
slants on the sea as if the sky had opened
to let an arrow loose. A hundred miles
away as yet, that Gulf hurricane wind, but
mounting; sixty, eighty, a hundred miles
an hour — a hundred and twenty-five in the
bursts that presently drove the sand dunes
into smoke.
The rim of wet sand beyond the dry, hum-
mocky space was covering with sheets of
black water racing from the surf line
breaking on the shoals.
And here Lalande saw what he had
sought. There was the white mound in
the ripples. With a cry he dashed for it.
The horse was down. He had not thought
it would come so soon. But the end of the
trailing rope had fouled a great driftheap,
and the brute had kept on charging and
fighting until he choked and fell in the
first wash of the sea. The slip-noose was
bound to cut him down if he kept on hurl-
ing his weight against it, Lalande knew.
He wished he had seen the last mag-
nificent fight against it on the sands; but
now he walked quickly around the fallen
brute, and knelt to touch his distended,
quivering nostrils. The eyes were shut but
bulging under a film. The great sides were
heaving, a rumbling groan found escape
somehow; it was as if the mighty heart was
breaking with a last throb against this
mysterious power choking its strength
away.
"Eh, soldier!" whispered Lalande, and
felt high on the horse's neck.
A sudden apprehension took him. Per-
haps the thong had killed the renegade? He
Hurricane Reef 277
did not mean that; he was filled with a
great exultant joy in this savage. He had
stalked and subdued him alone! He stood
above this outstretched, trembling body in
the first sea ripples, laughing.
"Come, boy! The fight's not done yet!
Not the end yet." He twisted his fingers
into the taut rope, forced on the dragging
driftwood, and eased the tension bit by bit.
The rope was buried in the white skin; he
worked hurriedly, fearing it was too late.
"Come, come; this will not do — " he was
whispering into the stallion's tense ear,
fighting at the rope. Then came a fierce,
convulsive blow, an explosive sigh, a strug-
gle, and the stallion lay quiet again. He
was breathing in great, resurging sighs. His
filmed eyes opened slowly. Lalande kept
on patting his muzzle while he hitched the
noose into a knot that would hold but not
choke again. He did not know why he did
this, only it seemed fair. He was looking
close into the brute's eyes which were be-
ginning to glow with sense again; and to
withdraw the choking hitch seemed only
justice.
Lalande stood up and looked down at
the white stallion. The water was roaring
out there now. The skyline was blown white
as feathers. The mangroves were slanting;
and he suddenly realized that the wind was
hard as a plank against his cheek. Not
bursting, but steadily lying against the land.
There was no rain, yet the air was full of
water streaming in white lines through a
growing darkness.
"Get up!" he shouted. "The sea is com-
ing. This is no place to be! Comrade, on
your feet!"
And the great horse did so. First plung-
ing up, but with his haunches squatted in
the water as he looked slowly about. Then
to all fours and standing with his tail
278
Charles Tenney ]ac\son
whipped about on his heaving flanks. He
seemed watching that wall of blown water
from the Gulf. Watching steadily, un-
daimted. The sands under the racing froth
seemed trembling; one could hardly see
the mangrove dunes not a hundred yards
away.
Lalande swiftly turned his eyes from the
ridge at a sound. It had seemed a shriek
above the odier tumult. Then he leaped,
and the wind appeared to lift him above
the shaking earth.
For the great stud was on him. Upreared
above him, a shaggy hoof coming not an
inch's breadth from his skull.
Just a glimpse of those red, savage eyes;
and the impact of those huge feet almost
upon his own. Then Lalande ran. The
hurricane wind flung him onward, but he
could hear the rush of the white stallion.
The entangled rope checked the charge
only enough to allow the man to hurl him-
self into the first mangroves, crawl under
them in a whirlwind of rising sands, and
keep on crawling. When he stopped he
knew the horse was crashing in the thickets
hunting him. He saw him as a wraith
against the sky, plunging his head low to
ferret out his enemy, blowing explosively
and hurling the tough mangrove clumps
aside.
Lalande kept on his stealthy crawl. He
lay, finally, in a water-riven dusk under
the lee of the dunes, listening. "Dieu!" he
panted. "I said, a soldier! The hurricane
could not stop that hate of men!"
For half an hour he did not move. The
brute had lost his trail. And when Lalande
crawled to the top of the dunes he could
not stand. All over the weather side the sea
had risen. It was white. White, that was
all he could say. And the wind ? It did not
seem a wind, merely a crushing of one's
skull and lungs. When he tried to turn away
it threw him headlong, but he got to his
feet on the northerly, lee side of the sand
ridge and fought on.
The sand was dissolving under his feet,
and now he saw the water of the bay
streaming by him. The inner marshes were
gone; the hurricane tide was on, and sixty
miles inland it would rush to batter on the
cypress forests and the back levees of the
plantation lands. Lelande had no illusions
about He Dautrive — he had been a lad on
this coast — ^but he kept on, for the highest
ridge was at the western point. Across the
sand shoal, beyond this point, was still
higher land, a clay fragment in which grew
a few stout oaks. By these Old Rojas's camp
had stood. It did not stand there now,
thought Lalande. Nothing built by man on
the reef would stand. Grandpere and the
children of the man whom the white stal-
lion had killed must certainly have taken
to the lugger — escaped before the hurricane
tide rushed upon the flimsy shack. Surely,
yes. Rojas was no fool!
Lalande kept on, clinging to the thickets
when the worst clutch of the wind was on
him. The roaring of it all was so steady
that actually he seemed in a great silence;
as if a new element had enveloped him,
a normal thing, this shock and unceasing
tenseness of feeling and of sound. Through
it he strode steadily himself, a strong man
with neither fear nor curiosity — a mere dull
plunge on to the last foothold of that
reef which was churning to gruel behind
his steps. He could not miss the point; there
was no other spot to reach, and the hurri-
cane was guide as well as captor.
And his mind was upon the lord of
Dautrive Island. "He will go. Perhaps he
is gone now. And the mares and colts, all
off the reef by now." And a grim satis-
The Horse of
faction came that the white stud had turned
on him at the last. It was fine to think of.
The savage had not cringed. "I do not want
anything that can be stolen," he murmured,
and spat the sea spray from his sore lips.
"His mares and colts, he fights for them —
that devil!"
And he began shouting profane, fond
challenges and adulations to his conqueror
somewhere in this white chaos of a night.
A whipping wisp of scud was that charging
shape above the torn thickets; any single
shriek of the storm his trumpeted challenge
in return. Lalande boasted to his soul that
he was seeking his foe; if it was the last
stroke of his hand he wished it raised to
taunt the white, oncoming devil.
Even the storm glimmer had faded when
he felt the water shoaling from his armpits
to his waist. This was the west point, the
highest; and here, with hands locked to
the stoutest of the mangroves, he would
have to let the sea boil over him as long as a
strong man could — then go.
On the western high point at last, and
nothing to see, nothing to feel but the sub-
merged bushes and the earth dissolving so
that he had to keep his feet moving to avoid
each becoming the center of a whirlpool.
"It is a storm," Lalande grunted. "Two
white devils on this reef." He remembered
seeing spaces of mirrored calm, peaceful
coves over which they told him orange trees
had bloomed in cottage yards of the reef
dwellers. The sea had devoured the islands
in a night, dug the hole, and lain down in
it like a fed tiger. Lalande, crowded closer
to the stouter thickets, put out his hand in
the dark. He touched a wet, warm surface,
heaving slightly.
The skin of a brute. He smoothed the
hair in the rushing water, felt along. A
wall of steely flesh broadside to the tidal
Hurricane Reef 279
wave. Lalande softly slipped his hand over
the huge round of the flank. The water was
swirling about them both — to the man's
armpits now. Lalande knew. They were on
the highest point, but ahead lay the shoal
pass. The sea was eating away this point;
what was left was sinking, flicked off into
the meeting currents around Dautrive and
swept inland. The island would be silt on
some cane planter's back fields forty miles
up the Mississippi delta within the week.
But for the last of his domain the lord
of Dautrive was fighting with his last foot-
hold. The white devil of the sea was doing
what man could not do. Lalande laughed
in the blackness. The stallion could not
feel his soft touch in all that beating welter
jof sand and debris churning around him. He
rested his arm across the unseen back — the
brute would think it was a driftwood
branch. The man stepped forward. There
was no other foothold now, it seemed. He
reached his hand to the shoulder, up to feel
the stiff, wet mane. He laughed and patted
the bulged muscles.
"We go, you and I," he grumbled. The
mangroves were slatted out on the tiderush,-
tearing loose, reeling past them. "Eh,
friend.? The last—"
And then he knew the horse had whirled,
upreared in the blackness with a scream of
fury. Lalande sprang to the left, into deep,
moiling water.
He felt the plunge of his foe just missing
him once more. But another body struck
him and then was whirled off in the meet-
ing tides. He collided with a colt in the
dark; and now he guessed that the white
stallion's breed had been gathered on the
refuge shielded to the last by his huge bulk
against the inexorable seas.
They wxre gone now. There w^as no more
foothold on Dautrive either for the exiles
28o
Charles Tenney ]ac\son
or the man who had come to subdue them.
Lalande knew he must not go with the
tidal wave. It was death anywhere out
there. The water would rush fifty miles
inland over the battered reefs. So he fought
^x)werfully back to get a hand-hold on the
mangrove thickets through a whirlpool of
dissolving sand.
But the man could not breast those surges
through the dark; he felt himself driven
farther back in a tangle of foam and debris,
and suddenly came a whip-like tightening
about his legs. He was dragged under and
out across the current until he fought down
to grasp diis thing that had him.
It was his throw-rope, the new and heavy
line that he had brought to conquer the
white stud that the island men feared.
Lalande plunged up and along it. The rope
was tight and surging athwart the drift.
When he got his head above water he
knew he was clear of the disintegrating
sand point, overwhelmed by the rollers in
the pass and stung by the spray, but mov-
ing.
An unseen guide, a mighty power was
drawing aslant the inshore tide. Lalande
hauled along until he felt the rhythmic beat
of the stallion's stroke; along until he
touch his flank. When he could put his
hand on his long mane Lalande laughed.
He hung there, and felt the brute plunge
higher at this contact. Once, twice, and
then the stud settled to his fight.
The lord of Dautrive could not shake
him ofl nor rend him with teeth or hoof.
He was being ridden through the black-
ness and the sea.
Lalande began shouting. He could not re-
sist that impulse of defiance, the great
horse had been merciless to him on the
island, so now he howled at him whenever
he could keep the salt water from his
teeth.
''Eh, hie?i! Big fellow, you see I am here!
If you go, I go! Lalande is with you — devil!
Fight! Fight on; a man is on your back at
last. A last ride, too, white devil!"
For he had no hope of anything except
to be battered to a pulp by the driftlogs
and wreckage in the pass or drowned over
the flooded marshes. But the stallion would
not give to the northward tide, always he
kept fighting to windward and westerly.
When he plunged on these tacks Lalande
swung out straight over his back, but
clinging lightly and calling his taunting
courage to the brute.
"The west ridge," muttered the rider.
"He knows that — the oaks and the clay
soil. If anything hangs together in this sea
it will be that."
So he clung in the dark. Nothing but the
incessant battles of the horse's broadside
in the hurricane tide kept that feeling in
Lalande's heart that the swimmer was try-
ing to cross th^ pass to Rojas's oak grove.
The white devil was blind in the white sea,
but he remembered that. Lalande could feel
the leg strokes steady and true even when
the waves lifted or buried them, or when
they were half drowned in the whipped
foam among patches of reef wreckage. The
man was fighting at this debris to keep it
from the stallion's neck when he felt some-
thing else streaming along his flanks. It
appeared to be submerged bushes or thick,
long grass twisting about beneath them.
And there was a changed note to the hurri-
cane's tumult.
Lalande swung up on the stallion's back,
listening. The swells of the pass were slower
here, huge and strangling, but not with the
fierce rush they had battled. The horse
The Horse oj
was swimming more to seaward, almost
head on now, and once he arose as if his
forefeet had struck the earth.
"He has found the marsh," muttered La-
lande. "Night of wonders; nothing else!"
Still that powerful, steady stroke under
the man's clinging limbs. The brute was
seeking whatever land might be above the
water. Then Lalande began to think, as
again he felt the forefeet touch bottom.
"Then we iight again, eh, tiger? Shake
me off and come at me ! Make the oaks and
we'll see!"
The horse plunged past a torn oak
stump which smashed him in the side. He
was in water to his withers, but Lalande
knew he was climbing. He got a foothold,
leaned against the tide rushing through the
oak grove, and kept on. Against the man
and horse there crushed another trunk, de-
nuded of leaves, swinging by its roots, stag-
gering them with its blows. The sea was
over this also, Lalande knew. If it came
higher there was no hope here.
Then the stallion stopped. He stood belly
deep in the lee of another oak trunk which
Lalande could feel in the utter dark. And
the man sat silent astride the white king
of Dautrive who had lost his domain and
his subjects. He moved his legs across the
heaving flanks — a sort of stealthy challenge.
He wanted the white stud to know that he,
Joe Lalande, was there astride him. He
laughed and leaned to pat the unseen arch
of the neck.
And then again came that furious, up-
rearing plunge of the great brute. His head
came about in a side blow, his teeth tearing
at Lalande's face as the rider swerved out
under this twisting, maddened attack. He
heard that trumpet cry again of the wild
horse seeking him as he dragged himself
about the oak tree in the water. He stood
Hurricane Reef 281
clutching the rojx:, trying to make out the
brute's form.
Then he knew that the swells riding
through the twisted oaks were slowed; the
yelling of the winds more fitful, higher;
and a sort of a check came to the clutch on
his body against the tree. Lalande seemed to
stand in a frothy eddy as if the sea had
stopped running and was foaming to an
apex about him. And he knew what it
meant, tjie moment that always comes in
the Gulf hurricanes. The wind was dying
off and changing. The sea could do no more.
It had piled its flood as far inland and as
high as even its strength could hold. Its
whirling center was now over the coast,
the wind whipping fitfully, now southwest,
westerly, northward, and beginning to rise
again. But there came one moment when
it was almost a calm, silence except for that
roaring in the sky.
''La revanche!' muttered the man. "Now
comes the worst — the rush of the tide back
to sea. The good God help them all, these
Cajans who had not found refuge up the
bay. La revanche — that is when they die!"
He felt about his oak trunk, wondering
if it were still rooted firmly. The white stal-
lion must be just about the torn branches,
for Lalande still had the trailing line. And
then came something that numbed him
with uncanny fear. A voice out in the dark,
a child's cry among the oaks.
"La revanche! Grand pere, it is coming!
Get the lines the other way. Grandpere — '*
Lalande went plunging toward tlie spot.
''Norn de Dieul It is not possible.- Rojasl"
He shouted, and stumbled among wreck-
age of trees and timbers around his waist.
"Rojas, you are in the grove .^"
A dim light glowed behind a blanket. He
saw a boy had snatched this moment of the
falling wind to try the lantern. When La-
282
Charles Tenney Jackson
lande waded to the spot an old man straight-
ened up on the other side of a sunken raft.
Upon it, under the blankets, were lashed the
forms of Rojas's children, the orphans of
Emile, who had once sought to tame the
white horse of He Dautrive. Old Rojas held
the lantern close to his white beard. He
seemed as frightened as was the small boy
by the stranger's coming.
Old Rojas had been trying to spike a
cross-piece to his shattered raft, fjis lugger
had been smashed in the first reach of the
hurricane, and he had torn up the planks of
his camp floor to build this refuge anchored
to the biggest oaks of the grove. They
knew what to do, these Cajans of the reefs,
when they were caught by the hurricane
tide. Cut the mast from the lugger and drift
inland, seize an anchorage before the
dreaded revanche took them seaward; or if
not that, hang to one's oak stumps!
Lalande did not waste the precious mo-
ments with a single question.
"A brave fight, old man. I see you made
a brave fight! Give me your raft-lines. The
other way around now, and to the stoutest
trees. This sea, it is like a mad tiger when
it has to go back defeated ! Come." He took
the mooring-line and plunged off in the
waist-deep froth.
"Day of wonders!" mumbled old Rojas.
"A man on the reef — living! A big man,
strong after the hurricane ! It is impossible."
He went on hammering his raft as it surged
and plunged by his shoulders, ordering the
youngster to make himself fast once more
in the life-ropes which held them all to the
shaking planks. There was no whimper
from the four children. They raised big
dark eyes staring from Grandpere to the
strange man who was battling back in
the first seaward rush of the waters to make
them fast against la revanche. The wind
was smiting again. It appeared to fall out
of the blackness to the north, blast after
blast, rising swifter, smiting the piled-up
waters, hurling them over the reef islands
with thrice the speed they had come in.
The dim lantern went out. The fugitives
tied themselves in again. If the worn lines
held and the raft kept together they might
live. "Name of Names!" grumbled old
Rojas. "A man coming to us out of the sea ?
He said he would make fast for us. If not,
my children — well, we must trust him."
Lalande had struggled off into the new
rush of the wind with the raft-lines. They
were frayed and ragged. He made them fast
to his own new throw-rope. He would get
this rope off the stallion somehow, and
make it fast to the big oak. If not — ^he
shrugged, well, then, nothing! Every wreck
of a lugger, plank of a camp, driftlog, tree,
that was loose would be miles in the open
Gulf to-morrow to eddy endlessly in la
revanche.
The old man's mooring-lines would not
reach the big oak. Lalande had thought
that, combined, they might last the night
out, but the sea and wind were whipping
fast on him in the dark. He had to plunge
out shoulder deep to the tree, feeling of his
line.
"The white devil is there and quiet," he
grumbled. "If he would let me slip the rope
from his shoulders and tie to the tree!" He
breasted the brimming tides over the sub-
merged isle past the oak, his hand cautiously
out to the dark. "Devil!" he called softly.
"This is for Emile Rojas's young ones. The
rope, devil! We've fought, you and I, but
now let me have it.'*
The line was tight past the oak stump.
The weight of the raft was already coming
strongly on it as the tide began to seethe
through the shattered grove. Lalande could
The Horse of
hardly keep his feet, or his eyes open against
the bitter spray. Then he was off his feet;
he was hanging to the Hne, fighting out on
it, calUng to his foe, reaching for him. The
brute must be swimming now, for the foot-
ing had gone from under them both.
Lalande felt a plunging on the line. It
was too late now to hope to get the rope
to the oak. The fighting horse was on it,
and it began to give slowly past the man's
hands. La revanche was bearing them on,
the raft, the man, and the white devil who
was its sole anchor now. Lalande clung
with one arm to the oak and drew in on
the line. The dead weight of the raft had
its way. The bucking, plunging brute, now
touching the ground, now surging in the
tide, was being drawn to him. Lalande
began to call again. He had a great sense
of pity for the stud. There were things that
could not be withstood even by his lion
heart; yet even the sea might not conquer
except for this choking drag of the raft
that held Rojas's grandchildren.
Lalande touched the stallion's muzzle
now, coming on fighting with the obstinate
ferocity of a white shark. He crouched in
the crotch of the oak and held out his arms
to the stallion's neck. When finally the
brute crashed upon the sunken oak, Lalande
reached his fingers to the cleft where the
throw-rope cut into his neck. He dragged on
the line, vainly trying to ease that tension.
Once he thought of his knife; he might
cut that choking grip from the white stud's
throat. Then Lalande lay back in the crotch
above the plunging hoofs and eased the
great head above his own shoulder. Drag-
ging on the line with all his power he kept
up his whispering as the hurricane tide
rushed under them, swinging the oak on its
roots, twisting it seaward, and sucking the
Hurricane Reef 283
earth away in whirls where Rojas's house
had stood.
"I tell you we arc still here, you and I,"
called Lalande after a while. "You and I,
devil! You and I — smashed up together,
my face against your own! Eh, bicnl Be
quiet, Emilc Rojas may be watching his
children, and you in this storm ! Remember
that, white devil, you have returned for
them!" He laughed and shouted in the
dark, his arm about the neck of the horse,
working his fingers under the rope, trying
to take some of the strain upon his own
flesh and bone. And presently he grum-
bled, "and remember, also, I am not a thief.
Not a thief, eh.?^"
They clung that way five hours, until
the crest of la revanche was passed. The
sun even got through the huge rifts of black
clouds streaming south by the time old
Rojas stirred about from his creaking raft
in the scrub oaks. Everywhere a brown,
dirty, sullen sea setting out, flecked with
drift and wreckage; and of all He Dautrive
nothing showed but these few battered,
branchless trees.
The stout old man waded waist-deep
from his raft where now Emile's young
ones sat up stiff and drowsy from the sea's
night-long flailing. He followed his moor-
ing-line out to where it sogged under water
by the big oak. The eldest boy had stood
up looking after him.
"GrandpheT screamed the lad suddenly.
"Look! The white horse has come! By the
tree, with the man!"
Old Rojas w^aded and struggled there, too
astounded to speak. The sight was a queer
one, indeed. The white horse was drawn
against the oak-crotch, pinned in there, in
fact; and the rope from his neck also
crushed the strange man against his shoul-
der. Joe Lalande appeared to be crucified
284
diaries Tenney ]ac\son
against the satin coat of the stalUon. But
he Hfted his free arm faintly when the old
man floundered near them.
''M'sieu?" gasped Rojas. "You here?"
He had to touch Lalande's drenched body
ere he would believe that the man lived.
Then he fell to loosening the slacked rope
so that Lalande lurched down from die
horse's neck into the water where he could
hardly stand but clung to the tree trunk
watching the animal. The rope had cut
through Lalande's arm and shoulder until
it made a long red-scarred mark from neck
to elbow. He could not speak for a time
from his salt-swollen lips.
"Yes, \ am here," he whispered at last,
and staggered weakly.
"Name of God, the white horse!" cried
the old man. He put his hand out to touch
the smooth side, but as if fearing him even
now. Lalande was trying to discover
whether cr not the heart of the white stal-
lion still beat; and then he turned away,
his eyes closing wearily. He seemed to be
shaken by a sob, a grief that the islander
could not comprehend.
"What's the matter, M'sieu? We are safe;
the boats will find us. Le bon Dieu! that was
a storm ! I have never seen a greater on this
reef!"
Then he looked curiously at the still
form of his old enemy. ''Eh, bienl It took a
white sea to kill this white devil, my
friend!"
"It was not the sea," grumbled Lalande.
"The touch of a rope on his neck, M'sieu. I
saw his heart break last night, but it was
for the children of Emile. A rope and the
touch of my hand upon his neck, they were
not to be endured, M'sieu." Then Lalande
turned away, as if speaking to the lord of
Dautrive against the tree: "At least you must
know this, white devil, the hand on you was
not the hand of a thief."
WILL JAMES (1892-1942)
First Money
from THE DRIFTING COWBOY
The American cowboy is an important figure in the history of our
country. He rides for wor\ and he rides for pleasure. His mount is a
product of his environment and of the purpose for which he is trained
and used. No writer can compare with Will James in his ability to portray
the cowboy and his horse, for Will ]ames in his portraits draws himself
and his own life. The vigor of his language, the lac\ of umtecessary
folderols, the pithy humor of understatement combined with exaggerated
analogies present the cowboy and his horse, not only alive but alive
and \ic\ing, or rather buc\ing, I chose the following excerpt from The
Drifting Cowboy because it is Will James at his best, showing us a part
of American life which may not always be with us, in its present strength,
honesty, and simplicity.
t was natural that we was f eehng pretty
good when we walked in the Rodeo
headquarters that evening and hear
the reports. We got our "daily money"
and then we holds our breaths while we
listen who all so far had qualified for the
finals. There was only three and / was one
of 'em,
Tom near went through hisself when
he heard my name was on that list and a
grin spread on his face that sure disguised
it.
"Good boy, Bill," he hollers at the same
time gives me a slap on that back that give
me to understand he meant all what he
said.
The eight or ten riders left what hadn't
competed for the finals and due to ride the
next day was drawing their horses and I
edged in to draw my "final" horse, I closed
my eyes and near prayed as I reaches in
the hat, gets one envelope and steps out
where Tom and me can read it together.
We pulls the paper out of the little en-
velope like it was going to be either real
bad news or else information that we'd
285
286
Will
inherited a million, and hesitating we un-
folds it.— "Slippery Elm" is all that little
piece of paper said, but that was enough
and meant a plenty. It meant that to-
morrow I was to ride a horse by that name
and that nine chances out of ten it was up
to that horse whetlier I'd win first, second,
or third money or nothing.
"We'd seen that horse bucked out the
second day. He was a big black and re-
minded me some of Angel Face, back there
on the range. His mane was roached and
from what we'd seen of him he wasn't near
as good a bucking horse as our old Angel
Face, he wasn't as honest and we remem-
bered that he throwed himself a purpose
and near killed a good cowboy on that
second day. What's more we learn that he
can't be depended on to buck everytime he's
rode, sometimes he just stampedes and it
was told that one time he run through two
railings and halfways up the grandstand
where he broke through the steps and near
broke his neck.
Putting all that together and thinking it
over, me and Tom was looking mighty
solemn. Of course, chances was that he
might buck and buck good but the biggest
part of them chances was that he'd just
stampede and crowhop and then fall, and
we knowed if it happened the imported
judges would take advantage of that and
instead of giving me another horse they'd
grin and just put a line across my name.
Tom ain't saying nothing, but I can see
he's doing a heap of thinking instead, and
watching him I can't help but grin a little
and remark that everything may turn out
alright. "Can't tell about that horse, Tom,"
I says, "he might buck like hell."
"Yes, he might and he might not/' says
Tom, looking gloomy, "and I sure hate to
see you take a chance on a scrub like that
Jatnes
horse after you getting as far as the finals. If
you'd a drawed a good one like that Rag-
time horse for instance, I don't mean the
one I rode and got disqualified on, I mean
the one they cheated me out of, well, if
you'd got a horse like that you'd have a
chance for your money, but who do you
suppose has drawed that horse .f^" he asks.
"I don't know," I says, wondering.
"That pet cowboy of Colter's got him —
and do you think he could of drawed that
horse on the square .f^ Not by a damn sight!
That cowboy is a good rider and being he
is Colter's drawcard same as some of his
horses he advertises and claims can't be
rode. Colter is naturally going to see that
that cowboy wins first. It's a safe bet so far
cause when he drawed Ragtime he drawed
the best bucking horse in the outfit."
"Now I'll tell you. Bill," says Tom, all
het up on the subject, "it's not the prize
money nor the honors we're after so much,
if they can outride us and do it on the
square we'd be glad to shake hands with
'em and congratulate, but they're trying to
put something over on us and on all the
riders of this part of the country. Other
outfits like Colter's done the same thing
last two years and got away with the money
when there was boys from here that could
of outrode 'em two to one, and it looks
like the same thing is going to be done this
year, but if you had a good horse, Bill, we'd
sure make them circus hands look up to a
cowboy."
It's after supper when Tom, still looking
mighty sour, tells me he's going to the
stable to get his horse and go visiting out
of town a ways. I see his mind is still on
the subject as he's saddling, and giving the
latigo a jerk remarks that he can lose a
square deal and laugh about it, "but I'll be
daggone," he says, "if it don't hurt to get
The Drifting Cowboy
287
cheated out of what's yours, have it done
right under your nose and not have no say
acoming."
The next day was the last day, the big
day, the grounds was sizzHng hot and
the dust that was stirred up stayed in the
air looking for a cooler atmosphere. It was
past noon and Tom hadn't showed up yet.
I was beginning to wonder of the where-
abouts of that cowboy and started looking
for him. I was still at it when the parade
drifted in and the Grand Entree was over,
every kid that could borrow a horse was
in it, some wore red silk shirts and they
sure thought they was cowboys far as the
clothes was concerned.
The riders what still had to ride for the
finals went hard at it and I was busy watch-
ing and judging for myself how many of
them would make them finals. I hears
when it's over that only two had qualified
and them two was of Colter's outfit, that
made six of us who are still to ride for
the grand prize, four of Colter's men and
two of us outsiders and by that I figgers that
Colter is sure making it a cinch of \eeping
the money in the family,
"All you bulldoggers on the track,"
hollers the Rodeo boss, and knowing that
Tom is in on that event I takes another
look for him, but I can't see hair nor hide
of that son-of-a-gun nowheres, so I was
getting real worried.
My name is called and I rides up to the
shute. My steer is let out and for the time
being I forgets everything but what I'd rode
up there for. I done good time, the best
time of that day so far, and I sure did wish
that old Tom was there and seen it, cause
I know it'd tickled him.
A half dozen or so other bulldoggers are
called on to take their chance and then
Tom's name comes, but he's still among the
missing and I sec no way but offer to
substitute for him. I had a mighry hard
time to get the judges to agree to that, but
with Pete on my side and me atalking my
head off, they finally decide to let me take
his place.
I glances towards the shutes and notice
a steer just my size already there and wait-
ing to come out, and I also notices that
they're trying to drive him back and put
another steer in the place of him, a great
big short-horned Durham. I rides up there
right now and begins to object, remarking
that I'd take on any steer as they come but
at the same time I wasn't letting any skunk
stack the cards on me by going to the special
trouble of picking me the hardest steer they
can find. I object so strong that they finally
let me have the first steer.
I was mad and when that steer come out
I figgered there was something to work my
hard feelings out on, I made a reach for
them long horns that I wouldn't of made
if I'd been normal, the critter kept me up
for a good airing, but when my boot heels
finally connected with the sod the program
wasn't long in ending. I stopped him good
so there wouldn't be no danger of being
disqualified and imagining that I was bull-
dogging a Rodeo boss or a judge instead of
a steer, it wasn't long before I had him
down.
"Old critter," I says to the steer as I lets
him up, "you play square which is more
than I can say for some folks."
I shakes the dust off myself, locates my
hat, and being I was through on bulldog-
ging I struts out round and toward the
saddling shutes trying to get a peek at that
long lean pardner of mine — a vision of his
expression as he was leaving the night be-
fore came to me and I'm beginning to won-
der if he didn't try to even scores with the
288
Will
Colter outfit. "But daggone it," I thinks,
"he should of let me tag along."
"You'll soon be riding now, Bill," says
one of the local boys breaking in on my
thoughts, "and if you don't bring home
the bacon with first money you better keep
on riding and never let me see your homely
phizog again."
"Bet your life," I says, "and that goes for
two judges too."
Comes the time when they're introducing
Colter's pet cowboy to the crowd in the
grandstand and telling all about his riding
abilities on the worst horses, etc., etc. A
few bows in answer to the cheers and that
same hombre rides to die shutes graceful
and prepares to get ready.
The Ragtime horse (the one Tom drawed
and didn't get) came out like a real bucker,
he wiped up the earth pretty and Colter's
top hand was a setting up there as easy as
though he was using shock absorbers. None
of the hard hitting jumps seemed to faze
him and his long lean legs was a reefing
that pony from the root of his tail to the
tips of his ears and a keeping time with
motions that wasn't at all easy to even see.
I felt kind of dubious as I watched the
proceedings. If I only had a horse like that
I thought, for as it was I didn't see no
chance and things was made worse when
I hear one of the riders next to me re-
mark: "You know. Bill, we got to hand it
to that feller, he may be with Colter's out-
fit and all that, but he sure can ridel'*
A couple other boys came out on their
ponies and they done fine but it was plain to
see who was up for first money. I didn't put
much heart to the job when I gets near the
shutes to straddle that roach maned scrub
I'd drawed, but I figgers to do the best I
can, there was no use quitting now and
maybe after all that horse might buck
James
pretty good, good enough to get me into
second or third money but dammit, I didn't
want second or third money. I wanted first
or nothing and it was my intentions to
ride for that.
The judges, all excepting Pete, didn't
seem interested when it was announced that
I was next to come out and I reckoned
they'd already figured me out of it as they
knowed I'd drawed Slippery Elm.
"Judges," hollers a voice that sounds
mighty familiar, "Watch this cowboy ride,
he's after first money."
The shute gate was about to be opened,
but I had to turn and see who'd just spoke
— and there, a few feet back stood Tom,
a glance of him kept me wondering or
asking where he'd been, his features was
kinda set, and I finds myself listening
mighty close as he looks at me and says —
sort of low: "Careful of the first jump. Bill,
and ride like you would if old Angel Face
was under you."
I had no time to talk back and that got
me to setting pretty close, but I had to
grin at the thought of the scrub I was set-
ting on being anything like the good
bucker old Angel Face could be, but I was
going to play safe anyway and get ready
to ride. If this horse bucked good, all the
better — then, the shute gate flies open.
That horse came out like the combina-
tion of a ton of dynamite and a lighted
match, I lost the grin I'd been packing, I
kinda felt the cantle crack as that pony
took me up to I don't know where and I
was flying instead of riding.
Instinct, or maybe past experience warned
me that somehow mighty soon we was go-
ing to come down again and natural like
I prepares for it. A human can think fast
sometimes, and you can tell that I did by
the fact that all I've described so far of that
The Drifting
pony^s movements was clone in about the
length of time it took you to read a couple
of these words. That roach mane horse
was sure surprising.
When that horse hit the ground I felt
as though Saint Peter and all the guards
of the Pearly Gates who I'd been to see just
a second before, had put their foot down on
me and was trying to push me through
the earth to the hot place. The saddle horn
was tickling me under the chin and one of
my feet touched the ground, my other one
was alongside the horse's jaw.
I hear a snorting beller that sounds away
off and I gets a hazy glimpse of the roman-
nosed lantern-jawed head that was making
it — I'd recognized the whole of it in hell
and instead of Slippery Elm, old Angel
Face was under me.
Right then and there the tune changed,
the spirits I'd lost came back along with
memories of first money. A full grown war-
whoop was heard. Angel Face answers
with a beller and all the world was bright
once more.
The judges had no chance to direct me
when to scratch forward and back, I was
doing that aplenty and they was busy turn-
ing their ponies and just keeping track of
me. I'd look over my shoulder at 'em and
laugh in their face at the same time place
one of my feet between the pony's ears
or reach back and put the III (hundred
and eleven) spur mark on the back of the
cantle of the saddle.
All through the performance old faith-
ful Angel Face kept up a standard of that
first jump I tried to describe. He was wicked
but true and it was a miracle that his feet
always touched the ground instead of his
body. There was none of that high rearing
show stuff with that old boy, only just
Cowboy 289
plain honest to god bucking that only a
horse of his kind could put out — one in a
thousand of his kind.
I got to loving that horse right then. He
was carrying me, kinda rough of course,
but straight to my ambitions, and even
though my feet was in the motion of scratch-
ing and covering a lot of territory on his
hide my spurs didn't touch him nor leave a
mark on him nowhercs, he was my friend
in need.
There's cheers from the grandstand,
cheers from the cowboys as far as I can
see in my wild ride everybody is up and
ahollering, everybody but the Colter crowd.
The shot is fired that marks the end of
my ride and Tom is right there to pick
Angel Face's head up out of the dust, that
old pony hated to quit and tries to buck
even after he's snubbed.
"He's some horse," Tom says real serious,
"and Bill you're some rider."
Late that night finds me and Tom lead-
ing Slippery Elm and headed for the
grounds, we was going to steal back Slip-
pery Elm's double. Angel Face.
"Too bad," I remarks, "that his mane
had to be roached to get him to look like
this scrub we're leading. The boss'll have
seventeen fits when he sees that."
Tom didn't seem worried. "What I'd like
to know," he says, "is how come I was
handed the championship bulldogging. I
wasn't even there the last day."
"I substituted for you, and even went and
broke my own record doing, it but," I goes
on before Tom can speak, "if you hadn't
brought in Angel Face I'd never got first
money. If the Colter outfit hadn't switched
horses on us we w^ouldn't of switched
horses on them, so there you are, Tom.
Turn about is fair play and that goes all
round."
CH.\RLES DICKENS (1812-1870)
How Mr. Pickwick undertook to drive
and Mr. Winkle to ride
from THE PICKWICK PAPERS
The plight in which Mr. Winkle finds himself in the ensuing tale is
not unlike that in which many a novice finds himself to this day. I
have heard people say that horses detect fear by smell — personally, I
dont thin\ they need smell to detect it; most certainly they \now the
inexperienced rider from the moment he lays hands on the reins pre-
paratory to riding, whether he is afraid or not, and invariably ta\e
advantage of him, This was true at the time the following tale was
written; it is true now, and will be true as long as there are horses
to ride and beginners to ride them. Dichens does not often write
extensively about horses, which is a little to be wondered at when one
considers how largely they figured in the life of his day.
^ ow, about Manor Farm," said
Mr. Pickwick. "How shall we
^ ^ go?"
"We had better consult the waiter, per-
haps," said Mr. Tupman, and the waiter
was summoned accordingly.
"Dingley Dell, gentlemen — fifteen miles,
gentlemen — cross road — post-chaise, sir.^^"
"Post-chaise won't hold more than two,"
said Mr. Pickwick.
"True, sir — beg your pardon sir. — ^Very
nice four-wheeled chaise, sir — seat for two
behind — one in front for the gentleman
that drives — oh! beg your pardon, sir —
that'll only hold three."
"What's to be done.?" said Mr. Snod-
grass.
"Perhaps one of the gentlemen would like
to ride, sir.^^" suggested the waiter, looking
towards Mr. Winkle; "very good saddle
horses, sir — any of Mr. Wardle's men com-
ing to Rochester bring 'em back, sir."
"The very thing," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Winkle, will you go on horseback .r^"
Mr. Winkle did entertain considerable
misgivings in the very lowest recesses of
290
The Pic\wic\ Papers
his own heart, relative to his equestrian
skill ; but, as he would not have them even
suspected on any account, he at once re-
plied with great hardihood, "Certainly. I
should enjoy it, of all things."
Mr. Winkle had rushed upon his fate;
there was no resource. "Let them be at the
door by eleven," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Very well, sir," replied the waiter.
The waiter retired; the breakfast con-
cluded; and the travellers ascended to their
respective bed-rooms, to prepare a change
of clothing, to take with them on their
approaching expedition.
Mr. Pickwick had made his preliminary
arrangements, and was looking over the
coffee-room blinds at the passengers in the
street, when the waiter entered, and an-
nounced that the chaise was ready — an an-
nouncement which the vehicle itself con-
firmed, by forthwith appearing before the
coffee-room blinds aforesaid.
It was a curious little green box on four
wheels, with a low place like a wine-bin
for two behind, and an elevated perch for
one in front, drawn by an immense brown
horse, displaying great symmetry of bone.
An hostler stood near, holding by the bridle
another immense horse — apparently a near
relative of the animal in the chaise — ready
saddled for Mr. Winkle.
"Bless my soul!" said Mr. Pickwick, as
they stood upon the pavement while the
coats were being put in. "Bless my soul!
who's to drive? I never thought of that."
"Oh! you, of course," said Mr. Tupman.
"Of course," said Mr. Snodgrass.
"I!" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
"Not the slightest fear, sir," interposed
the hostler. "Warrant him quiet, sir; a
hinf ant in arms might drive him."
"He don't shy, does he?" inquired Mr.
Pickwick.
291
"Shy, sir? — He wouldn't shy if he was to
meet a vaggin-load of monkeys with their
tails burnt off."
The last recommendation was indis-
putable. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass
got into the bin; Mr. Pickwick ascended
to his perch, and deposited his feet on a
floor-clothed shelf, erected beneath it for
that purpose.
"Now, shiny Villiam," said the hostler
to the deputy hostler, "give the gen'l'm'n the
ribbins." "Shiny Villiam" — so called, prob-
ably, from his sleek hair and oily counte-
nance — placed the reins in Mr. Pickwick's
left hand; and the upper hostler thrust a
whip into his right.
"Wo — o!" cried Mr. Pickwick, as the tall
quadruped evinced a decided inclination to
back into the coffee-room window.
"Wo — o!" echoed Mr. Tupman and Mr.
Snodgrass, from the bin.
"Only his playfulness, genTm'n," said
the head hostler encouragingly; "jist kitch
hold on him, Villiam." The deputy re-
strained the animal's impetuosity, and the
principal ran to assist Mr. Winkle in mount-
ing.
"T'other side, sir, if you please."
"Blowed if the gen'l'm'n worn't a gettin'
up on the wrong side," w^hispered a grin-
ning post-boy to the inexpressibly gratified
waiter.
Mr. Winkle, dius instructed, climbed into
his saddle, with about as much difficulty as
he would have experienced in getting up
the side of a first-rate man-of-war.
*'A11 right?" inquired Mr. Pickwick, with
an inward presentiment that it was all
wrong.
"All right," replied Mr. Winkle faindy.
"Let 'em go," cried the hostler,— "Hold
him in, sir," and away went the chaise, and
the saddle-horse, with Mr. Pickwick on the
292 Charles
box of one, and Mr. Winkle on the back
of the other, to the deHght and gratification
of the whole inn yard.
*'What makes him go sideways?" said
Mr. Snodgrass in the bin, to Mr. Winkle
in the saddle.
"I can't imagine," replied Mr. Winkle.
His horse was drifting up the street in the
most mysterious manner — side first, with
his head towards one side of the way, and
his tail towards the other.
Mr. Pickwick had no leisure to observe
either this or any other particular, the whole
of his faculties being concentrated in the
management of the animal attached to the
chaise, who displayed various peculiarities,
highly interesting to a bystander, but by no
means equally amusing to any one seated
behind him. Besides constantly jerking his
head up, in a very unpleasant and uncom-
fortable manner, and tugging at the reins to
an extent which rendered it a matter of
great difl&culty for Mr. Pickwick to hold
them, he had a singular propensity for dart-
ing suddenly every now and then to the
side of the road, then stopping short, and
then rushing forward for some minutes, at
a speed which it was wholly impossible to
control.
"What can he mean by this?" said Mr.
Snodgrass, when the horse had executed
this manoeuvre for the twentieth time.
"I don't know," replied Mr. Tupman; "it
loo\s very like shying, don't it?" Mr. Snod-
grass was about to reply, when he was inter-
rupted by a shout from Mr. Pickwick.
"Woo!" said that gentleman; "I have
dropped my whip."
"Winkle," said Mr. Snodgrass, as the
equestrian came trotting up on the tall
horse, with his hat over his ears, and shaking
all over, as if he would shake to pieces, with
the violence of the exercise, "pick up the
Dickens
whip, there's a good fellow." Mr. Winkle
pulled at the bridle of the tall horse till
he was black in the face; and having at
length succeeded in stopping him, dis-
mounted, handed the whip to Mr. Pick-
wick, and grasping the reins, prepared to
remount.
Now whether the tall horse, in the natu-
ral playfulness of his disposition, was de-
sirous of having a little innocent recreation
with Mr. Winkle, or whether it occurred
to him that he could perform the journey
as much to his own satisfaction without a
rider as with one, are points upon which,
of course, we can arrive at no definite and
distinct conclusion. By whatever motives
the animal was actuated, certain it is that
Mr. Winkle had no sooner touched the
reins, than he slipped them over his head,
and darted backwards to their full length.
"Poor fellow," said Mr. Winkle, sooth-
ingly, — "poor fellow — good old horse." The
"poor fellow" was proof against flattery:
the more Mr. Winkle tried to get nearer
him, the more he sidled away; and, notwith-
standing all kinds of coaxing and wheed-
ling, there were Mr. Winkle and the horse
going round and round each other for ten
minutes, at the end of which time each
was at precisely the same distance from the
other as when they first commenced — an
unsatisfactory sort of thing under any cir-
cumstances, but particularly so in a lonely
road, where no assistance can be procured.
"What am I to do ?" shouted Mr. Winkle,
after the dodging had been prolonged for
a considerable time. "What am I to do? I
can't get on him."
"You had better lead him till we come
to a turnpike," replied Mr. Pickwick from
the chaise.
"But he won't come!" roared Mr. Winkle.
"Do come, and hold him."
The Pickwick^ Papers
293
Mr. Pickwick was the very personation
of kindness and humanity: he threw the
reins on the horse's back, and having des-
cended from his seat, carefully drew the
chaise into the hedge, lest anything should
come along the road, and stepped back to
the assistance of his distressed companion,
leaving Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass in
the vehicle.
The horse no sooner beheld Mr. Pick-
wick advancing towards him with the
chaise whip in his hand, than he exchanged
the rotary motion in which he had pre-
viously indulged, for a retrograde move-
ment of so very determined a character,
that it at once drew Mr. Winkle, who was
still at the end of the bridle, at a rather
quicker rate than fast walking, in the direc-
tion from which they had just come. Mr.
Pickwick ran to his assistance, but the faster
Mr. Pickwick ran forward, the faster the
horse ran backward. There was a great
scraping of feet, and kicking up of the dust;
and at last Mr. Winkle, his arms being
nearly pulled out of their sockets, fairly
let go his hold. The horse paused, stared,
shook his head, turned round, and quietly
trotted home to Rochester, leaving Mr.
Winkle and Mr. Pickwick gazing on each
other with countenances of blank dismay.
A rattling noise at a little distance attracted
their attention. They looked up.
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the agonised
Mr. Pickwick, "there's the other horse run-
ning away!"
It was but too true. The animal was start-
led by the noise, and the reins were on his
back. The result may be guessed. He tore
off with the four-wheeled chaise behind
him, and Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass
in the four-wheeled chaise. The heat was a
short one, Mr. Tupman threw himself into
the hedge. Mr. Snodgrass followed his ex-
ample, the horse dashed the four-wheeled
chaise against a wooden bridge, separated
the wheels from the body, and the bin
from the perch: and finally stood stock still
to gaze upon the ruin he had made.
The first care of the two unspilt friends
was to extricate their unfortunate com-
panions from their bed of quickset— a
process which gave them the unspeakable
satisfaction of discovering that they had
sustained no injury, beyond sundry rents
in their garments, and various lacerations
from the brambles. The next thing to be
done was, to unharness the horse. This
complicated process having been effected,
the party walked slowly forward, leading
the horse among them, and abandoning the
chaise to its fate.
An hour's walking brought the travelers
to a little roadside public-house, with two
elm trees, a horse trough, and a signpost
in front; one or two deformed hay-ricks
behind, a kitchen garden at the side, and
rotten sheds and mouldering out-houses
jumbled in strange confusion all about it.
A red-headed man was working in the
garden; and to him Mr. Pickwick called
lustily— "Hallo there!"
The red-headed man raised his body,
shaded his eyes with his hand, and stared,
long and coolly, at Mr. Pickwick and his
companions.
"Hallo there!" repeated Mr. Pickwick.
"Hallo!" was the red-headed man's reply.
"How far is it to Dingley Dell.^"
"Better er seven mile."
"Is it a good road.f^"
"No t'ant." Having uttered this brief
reply, and apparently satisfied himself with
another scrutiny, the red-headed man re-
sumed his work.
294 Charles
"Wc want to put this horse up here," said
Mr. Pickwick; "I suppose we can, can't
wc?"
"Want to put that ere horse up, do ee?"
repeated the red-headed man, leaning on
his spade.
"Of course," repHed Mr. Pickwick, who
had by this time advanced, horse in hand,
to the garden rails.
"Missus" — roared the man with the red
head, emerging from the garden, and look-
ing very hard at the horse — "Missus!"
A tall bony woman — straight all the way
down — in a coarse blue pelisse, with the
waist an inch or two below her arm-pits,
responded to the call.
"Can we put this horse up here, my good
woman?" said Mr. Tupman, advancing,
and speaking in his most seductive tones.
The woman looked very hard at the whole
party; and the red-headed man whispered
something in her ear.
"No," replied the woman, after a little
consideration, "I'm afeered on it."
"Afraid!" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick,
"what's the woman afraid of?"
"It got us in trouble last time," said the
woman, turning into the house: "I woant
have nothin' to say to 'un."
"Most extraordinary thing I ever met
with in my life," said the astonished Mr.
Pickwick.
"I — I — really believe," whispered Mr.
Winkle, as his friends gathered round him,
"that they think we have come by this
horse in some dishonest manner."
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in a
storm of indignation. 2vlr. Winkle modestly
repeated his suggestion.
"Hallo, you fellow!" said the angry Mr.
Pickwick, "do you think we stole this
horse?"
"I'm sure ye did," replied the red-headed
Dickens
man, with a grin which agitated his
countenance from one auricular organ to
the other. Saying which, he turned into the
house, and banged the door after him.
"It's like a dream," ejaculated Mr. Pick-
wick, "a hideous dream. The idea of a man's
walking about, all day, with a dreadful
horse that he can't get rid of!" The de-
pressed Pickwickians turned moodily away,
with the tall quadruped, for which they all
felt the most unmitigated disgust, following
slowly at their heels.
It was late in the afternoon when the
four friends and their four-footed com-
panion turned into the lane leading to
Manor Farm; and even when they were so
near their place of destination, the pleasure
they would otherwise have experienced was
materially damped as they reflected on the
singularity of their appearance, and the
absurdity of their situation. Torn clothes,
lacerated faces, dusty shoes, exhausted looks,
and, above all, the horse. Oh, how Mr. Pick-
wick cursed that horse: he had eyed the
noble animal from time to time with looks
expressive of hatred and revenge; more than
once he had calculated the probable amount
of the expense he would incur by cutting
his throat; and now the temptation to
destroy him, or to cast him loose upon the
world, rushed upon his mind with tenfold
force. He was roused from a meditation on
these dire imaginings, by the sudden ap-
pearance of two figures at a turn of the
lane. It was Mr. Wardle, and his faithful
attendant, the fat boy.
"Why, where have you been?" said the
hospitable old gentleman; "I've been wait-
ing for you all day. Well, you do look tired.
What! Scratches! Not hurt, I hope — eh?
Well, I am glad to hear that — very. So
you've been spilt, eh? Never mind. Com-
mon accident in these parts. Joe — he's asleep
The PicJ{wick^ Papers
395
again! — Joe, take that horse from the
gentleman, and lead it into the stable.*'
The fat boy sauntered heavily behind
them with the animal; and the old gentle-
man, condoling with his guests in homely
phrase on so much of the day's adventures
as they thought proper to communicate, led
the way to the kitchen.
"We'll have you put to rights here," said
the old gentleman, "and then I'll introduce
you to the people in the parlour. Emma,
bring out the cherry brandy; now, Jane,
a needle and thread here ; towels and water,
Mary. Come, girls, bustle about."
Three or four buxom girls speedily dis-
persed in search of the different articles in
requisition, while a couple of large-headed,
circular-visaged males rose from their seats
in the chimney-corner (for although it was
a May evening, their attachment to the
wood fire appeared as cordial as if it were
Christmas), and dived into some obscure
recesses, from which they speedily produced
a bottle of blacking, and some half-dozen
brushes.
"Bustle!" said the old gentleman again,
but the admonition was quite unnecessary,
for one of the girls poured out the cherry
brandy, and another brought in the towels,
and one of the men suddenly seizing Mr.
Pickwick by the leg, at imminent hazard
of throwing him off his balance, brushed
away at his boot, till his corns were red-hot;
while the other shampoo'd Mr. Winkle
with a heavy clothes-brush, indulging,
during the operation, in that hissing sound
which hostlers are wont to produce when
engaged in rubbing down a horse.
Mr. Snodgrass, having concluded his
ablutions, took a survey of the rrxjm, while
standing with his back to the fire, sipping
his cherry brandy with heartfelt satisfaction.
He describes it as a large apartment, with
a red brick floor and a capacious chimney;
the ceiling garnished with hams, sides of
bacon, and ropes of onions. The walls were
decorated with several hunting-whips, two
or three bridles, a saddle and an old rusty
blunderbuss, with an inscription below it,
intimating that it was "Loaded" — as it had
been, on the same authority, for half a
century at least. An old eight-day clock,
of solemn and sedate demeanour, ticked
gravely in one corner; and a silver watch,
of equal antiquity, dangled from one of
the many hooks which ornamented the
dresser.
"Ready .^" said the old gentleman in-
quiringly, when his guests had been
washed, mended, brushed, and brandied.
"Quite," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"Come along, then," and the party having
traversed several dark passages, and being
joined by Mr. Tupman, who had lingered
behind to snatch a kiss from Emma, for
which he had been duly rewarded with
sundry pushings and scratchings, arrived at
the parlour door.
"Welcome," said their hospitable host,
throwing it open and stepping for\vard to
announce them, "Welcome, gentlemen, to
Manor Farm."
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY (1811-1863)
Mr. Eglantine's Singular Animal
from THE RAVENSWING
Thac\eray was the first, and as far as I \now, the last to use a horse
as the means of playi?2g a practical jo\e. One is also interested to note
that four miles an hour in a carriage is considered a ''rapid pace"
"^ glantine's usual morning costume
^ was a blue stain satin neckcloth
. ^ embroidered with butterflies and
ornamented with a brandy-ball brooch, a
light shawl waistcoat, and a rhubarb-
coloured coat of the sort which, I believe,
are called Taglionis, and which have no
waist-buttons, and made a pretence, as it
were, to have no waists, but are in reality
adopted by the fat in order to give them a
waist. Nothing easier for an obese man than
to have a waist; he has but to pinch his
middle part a little, and the very fat on
either side pushed violently forward ma\es
a waist as it were, and our worthy per-
fumer's figure was that of a bolster cut
almost in two with a string.
Walker presently saw him at his shop-
door grinning in this costume, twiddling
his ringlets with his dumpy greasy fingers,
glittering with oil and rings, and looking
so exceedingly contented and happy that
the estate-agent felt assured some very
satisfactory conspiracy had been planned
between the tailor and him. How was Mr.
Walker to learn what the scheme was?
Alas! the poor fellow's vanity and delight
were such, that he could not keep silent
as to the cause of his satisfaction; and rather
than not mention it at all, in the fulness
of his heart he would have told his secret
to Mr. Mossrose himself.
"When I get my coat," thought the Bond
Street Alnaschar, "I'll hire of Snaffle that
easy-going cream-coloured oss that he
bought from Astley's, and I'll canter
through the Park, and won't I pass through
Little Bunker's Buildings, that's all? I'll
wear my grey trousers with the velvet stripe
down the side, and get my spurs lacquered
up, and a French polish to my boot; and if
I don't do for the Captain, and the tailor
too, my name's not Archibald. And I know
what I'll do: I'll hire the small clarence,
and invite the Crumps to dinner at the *Gar
and Starter'" (this was his facetious way
296
The Ravenswing
^j7
of calling the "Star and Garter''), "and I'll
ride by them all the way to Richmond. It's
rather a long ride, but with Snaffle's soft
saddle I can do it pretty easy, I dare say.'*
And so the honest fellow built castles upon
castles in the air; and the last most beau-
tiful vision of all was Miss Crump "in white
satting, with a horange-flower in her 'air,"
putting him in possession of "her lovely
'and before the haltar of St. George's,
'Anover Square." As for Woolsey, Eglan-
tine determined that he should have the
best wig his art could produce; for he had
not the least fear of his rival.
These points then being arranged to the
poor fellow's satisfaction, what does he do
but send out for half-a-quire of pink note-
paper, and in a filagree envelope despatch
a note of invitation to the ladies at the
"Bootjack:"—
'Bower of Bloom, Bond Street,
^Thursday.
*Mr. Archibald Eglantine presents his com-
pliments to Mrs. and Miss Crump, and requests
the honour and pleasure of their company at the
"Star and Garter" at Richmond to an early dinner
on Sunday next.
7/ agreeable, Mr. Eglantine's carriage will be
at your door at three o'clock, and I propose to
accompany them on horseback, if agreeable
likewise.'
This note was sealed with yellow wax,
and sent to its destination; and of course
Mr. Eglantine went himself for the answer
in the evening: and of course he told the
ladies to look out for a certain new coat he
was going to sport on Sunday; and of
course Mr. Walker happens to call the next
day with spare tickets for Mrs. Crump and
her daughter, when the whole secret was
laid bare to him — how the ladies were going
to Richmond on Sunday in Mr. Snaffle's
clarence, and how Mr. Eglantine was to
ride by their side.
Mr. Walker did not keep horses of his
own; fjis magnificent friends at the
"Regent" had plenty in their stables, and
some of these were at livery at the estab-
lishment of the Captain's old "college'*
companion, Mr. Snaffle. It was easy, there-
fore, for the Captain to renew his acquaint-
ance with that individual. So, hanging on
the arm of my Lord Vauxhall, Captain
Walker next day made his appearance at
Snaffle's livery stables, and looked at the
various horses there for sale or at bait, and
soon managed, by putting some facetious
questions to Mr. Snaffle regarding the "Kid-
ney Club," &c., to place himself on a
friendly footing with that gentleman, and
to learn from him what horse Mr. Eglan-
tine was to ride on Sunday.
The monster Walker had fully deter-
mined in his mind that Eglantine should
fall off that horse in the course of his
Sunday's ride.
"That sing'lar hanimal," said Mr. Snaffle,
pointing to the old horse, "is the celebrated
Hemperor that was the wonder of Hastley's
some years back, and was parted with by
Mr. Ducrow honlv because his feelin's
wouldn't allow him to keep him no longer
after the death of the first Mrs. D., who
invariably rode him. I bought him, thinking
that p'raps ladies and Cockney bucks might
like to ride him (for his haction is wonder-
ful, and he canters like a harm-chair) ; but
he's not safe on any day except Sundays.
"And why's that.'^" asked Captain Wal-
ker. "Why is he safer on Sundays than
other days.f^"
"Because there's no music in the streets
on Sundays. The first gent that rode him
found himself dancing a quadrille in Hup-
per Brook Street to an 'urdy-gurdy that
was playing "Cherry Ripe," such is the
natur of the hanimal. And if you reklect
298
William Makepeace Thac\eray
the play of the "Battle of Hoysterlitz," In
which Mrs. D. hacted "the female hussar,"
you may remember how she and tlie horse
died in the third act to the toon of "God
preserve the Emperor," from which this
horse took his name. Only play that toon
to him, and he rears hisself up, beats the
hair in time with his forelegs, and then
sinks gently to die ground as though he
were carried off by a cannonball. He served
a lady hopposite Hapsley 'Ouse so one day,
and since then Fve never let him out to a
friend except on Sunday, when, in course,
diere's no danger. Heglantine is a friend
of mine, and of course I wouldn't put the
poor fellow on a hanimal I couldn't trust."
After a little more conversation, my lord
and his friend quitted Mr. Snaffle's, and as
they walked away towards the "Regent,"
his Lordship might be heard shrieking with
laughter, crying, "Capital, by jingo! ex-
thlent! Dwive down in the dwag! Take
Lungly. Worth a thousand pound, by
Jove!" and similar ejaculations, indicative
of exceeding delight.
On Saturday morning, at ten o'clock to
a moment, Mr. Woolsey called at Mr.
Eglantine's with a yellow handkerchief
under his arm. It contained the best and
handsomest body-coat that ever gentleman
put on. It fitted Eglantine to a nicety — it
did not pinch him in the least, and yet it
was of so exquisite a cut that the perfumer
found, as he gazed delighted in the glass,
that he looked like a manly portly high-
bred gentleman — a lieutenant-colonel in
the army at the very least.
"You're a full man. Eglantine," said the
tailor, delighted, too, with his own work;
"but that can't be helped. You look more
like Hercules than Falstaff now, sir; and
if a coat can make a gentleman, a gentle-
man you are. Let me recommend you to
sink the blue cravat, and take the stripes
off your trousers. Dress quiet, sir; draw it
mild. Plain waistcoat, dark trousers, black
neckcloth, black hat, and if there's a better-
dressed man in Europe to-morrow, I'm a
Dutchman."
"Thank you, Woolsey — thank you, my
dear sir," said the charmed perfumer. "And
now I'll just trouble you to try on this here."
The wig had been made with equal skill;
it was not in the florid style which Mr.
Eglantine loved in his own person, but,
as the perfumer said, a simple straight-
forward head of hair.
"It seems as if it had grown there all
your life, Mr. Woolsey; nobody would tell
that it was not your nat'ral colour" (Mr.
Woolsey blushed) — "it makes you look ten
year younger; and as for that scarecrow
yonder, you'll never, I think, want to wear
that again."
Woolsey looked in the glass, and was
delighted too. The two rivals shook hands
and straightway became friends, and in the
overflowing of his heart the perfumer men-
tioned to the tailor the party which he had
arranged for the next day, and offered him
a seat in the carriage and at the dinner at
the "Star and Garter." "Would you like to
ride.f^" said Eglantine, with rather a con-
sequential air. "Snaffle will mount you, and
we can go one on each side of the ladies,
if you like."
But Woolsey humbly said he was not a
riding man, and gladly consented to take a
place in the clarence carriage, provided he
was allowed to bear half the expenses of
the entertainment. This proposal was
agreed to by Mr. Eglantine, and the two
gentlemen parted, to meet once more at
the "Kidneys" that night, when everybody
was edified by the friendly tone adopted
between them. Mr. Snaffle, at the club meet-
The Ravenswing
ing, maSe the very same proposal to Mr.
Woolsey that the perfumer had made; and
stated that as Eglantine was going to ride
Hemperor, Woolsey, at least, ought to
mount too. But he was met by the same
modest refusal on the tailor's part, who
stated .that he had never mounted a horse
yet, and preferred greatly the use of a
coach.
Eglantine's character as a "swell" rose
greatly with the club that evening.
Two o'clock on Sunday came: the two
beaux arrived punctually at the door to
receive the two smiling ladies.
"Bless us, Mr. Eglantine!" said Miss
Crump, quite struck by him, "I never saw
you look so handsome in your life." He
could have flung his arms around her neck
at the compliment. "And law, ma ! what has
happened to Mr. Woolsey } doesn't he look
ten years younger than yesterday ?" Mamma
assented, and Woolsey bowed gallantly,
and the two gentlemen exchanged a nod
of hearty friendship.
The day was delightful. Eglantine
pranced along magnificently on his can-
tering arm-chair, with his hat on one ear,
his left hand on his side, and his head flung
over his shoulder, and throwing under-
glances at Morgiana whenever the "Em-
peror" was in advance of the clarence. The
"Emperor" pricked up his ears a little un-
easily passing the Ebenezer chapel in
Richmond, where the congregation were
singing a hymn, but beyond this no ac-
cident, occurred; nor was Mr. Eglantine in
the least stiff or fatigued by the time the
party reached Richmond, where he arrived
time enough to give his steed into the
charge of an ostler, and to present his elbow
to the ladies as they alighted from the
clarence carriage.
What this jovial party ate for dinner at
299
the "Star and Garter" need not here be
set down. If they did not drink champagne
I am very much mistaken. They were as
merry as any four people in Christendom;
and between the bev/ildering attentions of
the perfumer, and the manly courtesy of
the tailor, Morgiana very likely forgot the
gallant Captain, or, at least, was very happy
in his absence.
At eight o'clock they began to drive
homewards. ''Won't you come into the
carriage .f^" said Morgiana to Eglantine, with
one of her tenderest looks; "Dick can ride
the horse." But Archibald was too great a
lover of equestrian exercise. "I'm afraid to
trust anybody on this horse," said he with
a knowing look; and so he pranced away
by the side of the little carriage. The moon
was brilliant, and, with the aid of the gas-
lamps, illuminated the whole face of the
country in a way inexpressibly lovely.
Presently, in the distance, the sweet and
plaintive notes of a bugle were heard, and
the performer, with great delicacy, executed
a religious air. "Music, too! heavenly!" said
Morgiana, throwing up her eyes to the stars.
The music came nearer and nearer, and the
delight of the company was only more in-
tense. The fly was going at about four miles
an hour, and the "Emperor" began canter-
ing to time at the same rapid pace.
"This must be some gallantry of yours,
Mr. Woolsey," said the romantic Morgiana,
turning upon that gentleman. "Mr. Eglan-
tine treated us to the dinner, and you have
provided us with the music."
Now Woolsey had been a little, a very
little, dissatisfied during the course of the
evening's entertainment, by fancying that
Eglantine, a much more voluble person
than himself, had obtained rather an undue
share of the ladies' favour; and as he him-
self paid half of the expenses, he felt very
300
much vexed to thmk that the perfumer
should take all the credit of the business to
himself. So when Miss Crump asked if he
had provided the music, he foolishly made
an evasive reply to her query, and rather
wished her to imagine that he had per-
formed that piece of gallantry. "If it pleases
you, Miss Morgiana," said this artful
Schneider, "what more need any man ask ?
wouldn't I have all Drury Lane orchestra
to please your"
The bugle had by this time arrived quite
close to the clarence carriage, and if Morgi-
ana had looked round she might have seen
whence the music came. Behind her came
slowly a drag, or private stage-coach, with
four horses. Two grooms with cockades and
folded arms were behind; and driving on
the box, a little gentleman, with a blue
bird's-eye neckcloth, and a white coat. A
bugleman was by his side, who performed
the melodies which so delighted Miss
Crump. He played very gently and sweetly,
and "God save the King" trembled so softly
out of the brazen orifice of his bugle, that
the Crumps, the tailor, and Eglantine him-
self, who was riding close by the carriage^
were quite charmed and subdued.
"Thank you, dear Mr. Woolsey," said
the grateful Morgiana; which made Eglan-
tine stare, and Woolsey was just saying,
"Really, upon my word, Fve nothing to do
with it," when the man on the drag-box
said to the bugleman, "Now!"
The bugleman began the tune of —
'Heaven preserve our Emperor Fra-an-cis.
Rum tum-ti-tum-ti-titty-ti.'
At the sound, the Emperor reared himself
(with a roar from Mr. Eglantine) — reared
and beat the air with his fore-paws. Eglan-
tine flung his arms round the beast's neck;
still he kept beating time with his fore-
William Makepeace Thackeray
paws. Mrs. Crump screamed: Mr. Woolsey,
Dick, the clarence coachman. Lord Vaux-
hall (for it was he), and his Lordship's
two grooms, burst into a shout of laughter;
Morgiana cries "Mercy! mercy!" Eglantine
yells "Stop!"— "Wo!"— "Oh!" and a thou-
sand ejaculations of hideous terror; until,
at last, down drops the "Emperor" stone
dead in the middle of the road, as if carried
off by a cannon-ball.
Fancy the situation, ye callous souls who
laugh at the misery of humanity, fancy
the situation of poor Eglantine under the
"Emperor!" He had fallen very easy, the
animal lay perfectly quiet, and the perfumer
was to all intents and purposes as dead as
the animal. He had not fainted, but he
was immovable with terror; he lay in a
puddle, and thought it was his own blood
gushing from him; and he would have lain
there until Monday morning, if my Lord's
grooms, descending, had not dragged him
by the coat-collar from under the beast, who
still lay quiet.
"Play ^Charming Judy Callaghan,' will
ye.f^" says Mr. Snaffle's man, the fly-driver;
on which the bugler performed that lively
air, and up started the horse, and the
grooms, who were rubbing Mr. Eglantine
down against a lamp-post, invited him to
remount.
But his heart was too broken for that.
The ladies gladly made room for him in
the clarence. Dick mounted "Emperor" and
rode homewards. The drag, too, drove
away, playing "Oh dear, what can the
matter be?" and with a scowl of furious
hate, Mr. Eglantine sat and regarded his
rival. His pantaloons were split, and his
coat torn up the back.
"Are you hurt much, dear Mr. Archi-
bald.'^" said Morgiana, with unaffected
compassion,
The Ravenswing
"N-not much," said the poor fellow,
ready to burst into tears.
"Oh, Mr. Woolscy," added the good-
natured girl, "how could you play such a
trick?"
"Upon my word," Woolsey began, in-
tending to plead innocence; but the ludi-
crousness of the situation was once more
too much for him, and he burst out into a
roar of laughter.
301
"You! you cowardly beast!" howled out
Eglantine, now driven to fury — ''you laugh
at me, you miserable cretur! Take that, sir!"
and he fell upon him with all his might,
and well-nigh throttled the tailor, and pum-
melling his eyes, his nose, his ears, with in-
conceivable rapidity, wrenched, finally, his
wig off his head, and flung it into the road.
Morgiana saw that Woolsey had red
hair. . . .
FELIX SALTEN (1869- )
Concerning the Lnperial Spanish
Riding School in Vienna
fr&m FLORIAN
The Imperial Spanish Riding School in Vienna existed for over two
hundred years for the sole purpose of breeding and training their
beautiful Leppizan horses and i72 developing that type of riding \nown
as ''Haute Ecole!' Whether one believes that Haute Ecole is the acme of
fine horsemanship, or whether one is of the school of thought that it
is so artificial as to be completely useless, does not change the fact that
the interpretation of the will of the rider by the horse {and his desire to
comply instantly with that will) approaches the uncanny. The "High
School" rider and his mount were as near one as it is possible for man
and beast to be. They did not perform for glory or gain as does the
Arabian on his war mare, the polo player, or the jockey; horse and man
devoted their entire lives to perfecting what they considered a fine art for
the sheer love of that art.
The Spanish School disappeared with the death of Franz Joseph at
the beginning of World War I. It was revived for a short time, but I fear
it has now succumbed again. A few of the horses, or their descendants,
are still to be seen doing the simplest of the Haute Ecole movements in
circuses and vaudeville acts, but when the trainers who learned from the
great Ritmeisters are gone it is questionable whether there will be any
to take their places.
"To the degree that an Asil — highborn
horse — possesses thy heart will she respond
to thee. She will humble thy enemies and
honor thy friends. Willingly she will carry
thee upon her hac\, but she will consent to
no humiliation. She is at once aware whether
she carrieth a friend or an enemy of God.
The mare that lives by Divine orders as a
mute and obedient companion of man, has
an insight into the mind of her master whom
she may even prefer to her own kind!' —
Mnahi.
Drinkers of the Wind by Carl
Raswan.
302
A
brief "Good morning** from the
Emperor was accompanied by
a circular movement of his hand.
The moment he sat down, a door in the
opposite wall was thrown wide, and four
horsemen rode into the arena. In a straight
line they swept toward the Court Box and
stopped at an appropriate distance. Simul-
taneously they doffed their two-cornered
hats and swung them until their arms were
horizonal. Then they wheeled and to the
strains of the Gypsy Baron began their
quadrille.
The circle and capers cut by the four
horses were precisely alike, and gave the
effect of music in the flowing rhythm of
their execution. The regularity of the horses'
strides, and the horsemanship of the four
riders aroused the spectators to a gay pitch,
no one could have said why; it was sheer
rapture evoked by the beautiful, blooded
animals and their artistry.
§ § §
The quadrille was over, the horsemen
had made their exit. The wooden door
remained wide open.
Next seven mounted stallions entered and
filed in front of the Court Box. Seven
bicornes were removed from seven heads,
swung to a horizonal position, and replaced.
Florian stood in the center. To his right
stood three older stallions, thoroughly
trained, and to his left three equally tested
ones. He resembled a fiery youth among
men. In a row of white steeds he stood
out as the only pure white one. His snowy
skin, unmarred by a single speck, called
up memories of cloudless sunny days, of
Nature's gracious gifts. His liquid dark
eyes, from whose depths his very soul shone
forth, sparkled with inner fire and energy
and health. Ennsbauer sat in the saddle like
a carved image. With his brown frock-coat,
his chiseled, reddish brown features and his
fixed mien, he seemed to have been poured
in metal.
The Emperor had just remarked, "Enns-
bauer uses no stirrups or spurs," when the
sextet began to play.
The horses walked alongside the grayish-
white wainscoting. Their tails were braided
with gold, with gold also their waving
manes. Pair by pair they were led through
the steps of the High School; approached
from the far side toward the middle, and
went into their syncopated, cadenced stride.
The Emperor had no eyes for any but
Florian. Him he watched, deeply engrossed.
His connoisseur's eye tested the animal,
tested the rider, and could find no flaw that
might belie the unstinted praise he had
heard showered on them. His right hand
played with his mustache, slowly, not with
the impatient flick that spelled disappoint-
ment over something.
Ennsbauer felt the Emperor's glance like a
physical touch. He stiffened. He could
hope for no advancement. Nor did he need
fear a fall. Now — in the saddle, under him
this unexcelled stallion whose breathing he
could feel between his legs and whose
readiness and willingness to obey he could
sense like some organic outpouring — now
doubt and pessimism vanished. The calm,
collected, resolute animal gave him calm-
ness, collectedness, and resolution.
At last he rode for the applause of the
303
304 Felix
Emperor, of Franz Joseph himself, and by
Imperial accolade for enduring fame. Now
it was his turn
Away from the wall he guided Florian,
into the center of the ring. An invisible
sign, and Florian, as if waiting for it, fell
into the Spanish step.
Gracefully and solemnly, he lifted his
legs as though one with the rhythm of the
music. He gave the impression of carrying
his rider collectedly and slowly by his own
free will and for his own enjoyment.
Jealous of space, he placed one hoof directly
in front of the other.
The old Archduke Rainer could not con-
tain himself: "Never have I seen a horse
pia-ffe like that!"
Ennsbauer wanted to lead Florian out of
the Spanish walk, to grant him a moment's
respite before the next tour. But Florian
insisted on prolonging it and Ennsbauer
submitted.
Florian strode as those horses strode who,
centuries ago, triumphantly and conscious
of their triumphant occasion, bore Caesars
and conquerors into vanquished cities or in
homecoming processions. The rigid curved
neck, such as the ancient sculptors modeled;
the heavy short body that seemed to rock
on the springs of his legs, the interplay of
muscle and joint, together constituted a
stately performance, one that amazed the
more as it gradually compelled the recogni-
tion of its rising out of the will to perfect
performance. Every single movement of
Florian's revealed nobility, grace, signifi-
cance and distinction all in one; and in
each of his poses he was the ideal model for
a sculptor, the composite of all the eques-
trian statues of history.
The music continued and Florian, chin
pressed against chest, deliberately bowed
his head to the left, to the right.
Sahen
"Do you remember," Elizabeth whis-
pered to her husband, "what our boy once
said about Florian.? He sings — only one
does not hear it."
Ennsbauer also was thinking of the words
of little Leopold von Neustift as he led
Florian from the Spanish step directly into
the volte. The delight with which Florian
took the change, the effortless ease with
which he glided into the short, sharply
cadenced gallop, encouraged Ennsbauer to
try the most precise and exacting form of
the volte, the redoppe, and to follow that
with the pirouette.
As though he intended to stamp a circle
into the tanbark of the floor, Florian pivoted
with his hindlegs fixed to the same place,
giving the breath-taking impression of a
horse in full gallop that could not bolt
loose from the spot, nailed to the ground
by a sorcerer or by inner compulsion.
And when, right afterward, with but
a short gallop around, Florian rose into the
pesade, his two forelegs high in the air
and hindlegs bent low, and accomplished
this difficult feat of balance twice, three
times, as if it were child's play, he needed
no more spurring on. Ennsbauer simply let
him be, as he began to courbette, stifHy
erect. His forelegs did not beat the air, now,
but hung limply side by side, folded at the
knee. Thus he carried his rider, hopped
forward five times without stretching his
hindlegs. In the eyes of the spectators
Florian's execution of the courbette did not
impress by its bravura, or by the conquest of
body heaviness by careful dressure and re-
hearsal, but rather as an exuberant means
of getting rid of a superabundance of con-
trolled gigantic energy.
Another short canter around the ring was
shortened by Florian's own impatience
when he voluntarily fell into the Spanish
step. He enjoyed the music, rocked with its
rhythm. These men and women and their
rank were as nothing to him. Still, the
presence of onlookers fired him from the
very outset. He wanted to please, he had a
sharp longing for applause, for admiration ;
his ambition, goaded on by the music, threw
him into a state of intoxication; youth and
fettle raced through his veins like a stream
overflowing on a steep grade. Nothing was
difficult any longer. With his rider and with
all these human beings around him, he cele-
brated a feast. He did not feel the ground
under his feet, the light burden on his back.
Gliding, dancing with the melody, he could
have flown had the gay strains asked for it.
On Florian's back as he hopped on his
hindlegs once, twice, Ennsbauer sat stunned,
amazed.
Following two successive croupades, a
Florian 305
tremendous feat, Florian went into the
Spanish step still again. Tense and at the
same time visibly exuberant, proud and
amused, his joyously shining eyes made
light of his exertions. From the ballotade
he thrust himself into the capriole, rose
high in the air from the standing position,
forelegs and hindlegs horizontal. He soared
above ground, his head high in jubilation.
Conquering !
Frenetic applause burst out all over the
hall, like many fans opening and shutting,
like the rustle of stiff paper being torn.
Surrounded by the six other stallions
Florian stepped before the Court Box, and
while the riders swung their hats in unison,
he bowed his proud head just once, con-
scious, it seemed, of the fact that the ovation
was for him and giving gracious thanks in
return,
STEPHEN CRANE (1871-190C)
Horses— One Dash
from THE OPEN BOAT
Stephen Crane may not have been a very prolific writer, hut one remem-
bers everything that he has written, I was glad to find a story about
Mexico by so fine an author, and one which dealt not with outlaw
horses, but with a swift ride to escape danger.
'""Richardson pulled up his horse and
~^^ looked back over the trail, where
JJL ^^ the crimson serape of his servant
flamed amid the dusk of the mesquit. The
hills in the v^est were carved into peaks, and
were painted the most profound blue. Above
them, the sky was of that marvellous tone
of green — like still sun-shot water — ^which
people denounce in pictures.
Jose was muflSed deep in his blankets, and
his great toppling sombrero was drawn low
over his brow. Hs shadowed his master
along the dimming trail in the fashion of an
assassin. A cold wind of the impending
night swept over the wilderness of mesquit.
*'Man," said Richardson, in lame Mexi-
can, as the servant drew near, "I want eat!
I want sleep! Understand no? Quickly! Un-
derstand ?"
"Si, sefior," said Jose, nodding. He
stretched one arm out of his blanket, and
pointed a yellow finger into the gloom.
"Over there, small village! Si, senor."
They rode forward again. Once the Amer-
ican's horse shied and breathed quiveringly
at something which he saw or imagined in
the darkness, and the rider drew a steady,
patient rein and leaned over to speak ten-
derly, as if he were addressing a frightened
woman. The sky had faded to white over
the mountains, and the plain was a vast,
pointless ocean of black.
Suddenly some low houses appeared
squatting amid the bushes. The horsemen
rode into a hollow until the houses rose
against the sombre sundown sky, and then
up a small hillock, causing these habita-
tions to sink like boats in the sea of shadow.
A beam of red firelight fell across the
trail. Richardson sat sleepily on his horse
while the servant quarrelled with some-
body — a mere voice in the gloom — over
the price of bed and board. The houses about
306
The Open Boat
him were for the most part Uke tombs in
their whiteness and silence, but there were
scudding black figures that seemed inter-
ested in his arrival.
Jose came at last to the horses' heads,
and the American slid stiffly from his seat.
He muttered a greeting as with his spurred
feet he clicked into the adobe house that
confronted him. The brown, stolid face of
a woman shone in the light of the fire. He
seated himself on the earthen floor, and
blinked drowsily at the blaze. He was aware
that the woman was clinking earthenware,
and hieing here and everywhere in the
manoeuvres of the housewife. From a dark
corner of the room there came the sound
of two or three snores twining together.
The woman handed him a bowl of tor-
tillas. She was a submissive creature, timid
and large-eyed. She gazed at his enormous
silver spurs, his large and impressive re-
volver, with the interest and admiration of
the highly privileged cat of the adage. When
he ate, she seemed transfixed off there in
the gloom, her white teeth shining.
Jose entered, staggering under two Mexi-
can saddles large enough for building-sites.
Richardson decided to smoke a cigarette,
and then changed his mind. It would be
much finer to go to sleep. His blanket hung
over his left shoulder, furled into a long
pipe of cloth, according to a Mexican fash-
ion. By doffing his sombrero, unfastening
his spurs and his revolver-belt, he made
himself ready for the slow, blissful twist
into the blanket. Like a cautious man, he lay
close to the wall, and all his property was
very near his hand.
The mesquit brush burned long. Jose
threw two gigantic wings of shadow as he
flapped his blanket about him — first across
his chest under his arms, and then around
his neck and across his chest again, this
time over his arms, with the end tossed on
his right shoulder. A Mexican thus snugly
enveloped can nevertheless free his fighting
arm in a beautifully brisk way, merely
shrugging his shoulder as he grabs for the
weapon at his belt. They always wear their
serapes in this manner.
The firelight smothered the rays which,
streaming from a moon as large as a drum-
head, were struggling at the open door.
Richardson heard from the plain the fine,
rhythmical trample of the hoofs of hurried
horses. He went to sleep wondering who
rode so fast and so late. And in the deep
silence the pale rays of the moon must have
prevailed against the red spears of the fire
until the room was slowly flooded to its
middle with a rectangle of silver light.
Richardson was awakened by the sound
of a guitar. It was badly played — in this
land of Mexico, from which the romance
of the instrument ascends to us like a per-
fume. The guitar was groaning and whin-
ing like a badgered soul. A noise of scuffling
feet accompanied the music. Sometimes
laughter arose, and often the voices of men
saying bitter things to each other; but al-
ways the guitar cried on, the treble sound-
ing as if someone were beating iron, and
the bass humming like bees.
"Damn it! they're having a dance," mut-
tered Richardson, fretfully. He heard two
men quarrelling in short, sharp words like
pistol-shots; they were calling each other
worse names than common people know in
other countries.
He wondered why the noise was so loud.
Raising his head from his saddle-pillow,
he saw, with the help of the valiant moon-
beams, a blanket hanging flat against the
v/all at the farther end of the room. Being
of the opinion diat it concealed a door, and
remembering that Mexican drink made men
3o8 Stephen
very drunk, he pulled his revolver closer to
him and prepared for sudden disaster.
Richardson was dreaming of his far and
beloved North.
"Well, I would kill him, then!"
"No, you must not!"
"Yes, I will kill him! Listen! I will ask
this American beast for his beautiful pistol
and spin's and money and saddle, and if he
will not give them — you will see!"
"But these Americans — they are a strange
people. Look out, senor."
Then twenty voices took part in the dis-
cussion. They rose in quivering shrillness,
as from men badly drunk.
Richardson felt the skin draw tight
around his mouth, and his knee-joints
turned to bread. He slowly came to a sitting
posture, glaring at the motionless blanket
at the far end of the room. This stiff and
mechanical movement, accomplished en-
tirely by the muscles of the wrist, must have
looked like the rising of a corpse in the wan
moonlight, which gave everything a hue of
the grave.
My friend, take my advice, and never be
executed by a hangman who doesn't talk
the English language. It, or anything that
resembles it, is the most difficult of deaths.
The tumultuous emotions of Richardson's
terror destroyed that slow and careful proc-
ess of thought by means of which he under-
stood Mexican. Then he used his instinctive
comprehension of the first and universal
language, which is tone. Still, it is disheart-
ening not to be able to understand the de-
tails of threats against the blood of your
body.
Suddenly the clamor of voices ceased.
There was a silence — a silence of decision.
The blanket was flung aside, and the red
light of a torch flared into the room. It was
held high by a fat, round-faced Mexican,
Crane
whose little snake-like moustache was as
black as his eyes, and whose eyes were black
as jet. He was insane with the wild rage of a
man whose liquor is dully burning at his
brain. Five or six of his fellows crowded
after him. The guitar, which had been
thrummed doggedly during the time of the
high words, now suddenly stopped.
They contemplated each other. Richard-
son sat very straight and still, his right
hand lost in the folds of his blanket. The
Mexicans jostled in the light of the torch,
their eyes blinking and glittering.
The fat one posed in the manner of a
grandee. Presently his hand dropped to his
belt, and from his lips there spun an epithet
— a hideous word which often foreshadows
knife-blows, a word peculiarly of Mexico,
where people have to dig deep to find an
insult that has not lost its savor.
The American did not move. He was star-
ing at the fat Mexican with a strange fixed-
ness of gaze, not fearful, not dauntless, not
anything that could be interpreted; he sim-
ply stared.
The fat Mexican must have been discon-
certed, for he continued to pose as a grandee
with more and more sublimity, until it
would have been easy for him to fall over
backward. His companions were swaying in
a very drunken manner. They still blinked
their beady eyes at Richardson. Ah, well,
sirs, here was a mystery. At the approach
of their menacing company, why did not
this American cry out and turn pale, or run,
or pray them mercy } The animal merely sat
still, and stared, and waited for them to
begin. Well, evidently he was a great
fighter; or perhaps he was an idiot. Indeed,
this was an embarrassing situation, for who
was going forward to discover whether he
was a great fighter or an idiot .f^
To Richardson, whose nerves were tin-
The Open Boat
309
gling and twitching like live wires, and
whose heart jolted inside him, this pause
was a long horror; and for these men who
could so frighten him there began to swell
in him a fierce hatred — a hatred that made
him long to be capable of fighting all of
them, a hatred that made him capable of
fighting all of them. A .44-caliber revolver
can make a hole large enough for little
boys to shoot marbles through, and there
was a certain fat Mexican, with a mous-
tache like a snake, who came extremely
near to have eaten his last tamale merely
because he frightened a man too much.
Jose had slept the first part of the night
in his fashion, his body hunched into a
heap, his legs crooked, his head touching
his knees. Shadows had obscured him from
the sight of the invaders. At this point he
arose, and began to prowl quakingly over
toward Richardson, as if he meant to hide
behind him.
Of a sudden the fat Mexican gave a howl
of glee. Jose had come within the torch's
circle of light. With roars of singular fe-
rocity the whole group of Mexicans pounced
on the American's servant.
He shrank shuddering away from them,
beseeching by every device of word and
gesture. They pushed him this way and
that. They beat him with their fists. They
stung him with their curses. As he grovelled
on his knees, the fat Mexican took him by
the throat and said: "I'm going to kill you!"
And continually they turned their eyes to
see if they were to succeed in causing the
initial demonstration by the American.
Richardson looked on impassively. Under
the blanket, however, his fingers were
clenched as rigidly as iron upon the handle
of his revolver.
Here suddenly two brilliant clashing
chords from the guitar were heard, and a
woman's voice, full of laughter and confi-
dence, cried from without: "Hello! hello!
Where are you.'^'*
The lurching company of Mexicans in-
stantly paused and Irxjked at the ground.
One said, as he stood with his legs wide
apart in order to balance himself: "It is the
girls! They have come!" He screamed in
answer to the question of the woman:
"Here!" And without waiting he started
on a pilgrimage toward the blanket-covered
door. One could now hear a number of
female voices giggling and chattering.
Two other Mexicans said: "Yes, it is the
girls! Yes!" They also started quietly away.
Even the fat Mexican's ferocity seemed to
be affected. He looked uncertainly at the
still immovable American. Two of his
friends grasped him gaily. "Come, the girls
are here! Come!" He cast another glower at
Richardson. "But this — " he began. Laugh-
ing, his comrades hustled him toward the
door. On its threshold, and holding back
the blanket with one hand, he turned his
yellow face with a last challenging glare
toward the American. Jose, bewailing his
state in little sobs of utter despair and woe,
crept to Richardson and huddled near his
knee. Then the cries of the Mexicans meet-
ing the girls were heard, and the guitar
burst out in joyous humming.
The moon clouded, and but a faint square
of light fell through the open main door
of the house. The coals of the fire were
silent save for occasional sputters. Richard-
son did not change his position. He re-
mained staring at the blanket which hid
the strategic door in the far end. At his
knees Jose was arguing, in a low, aggrieved
tone, with the saints. Without, tlie Mexicans
laughed and danced, and — it would appear
from the sound — drank more.
In the stillness and night Richardson sat
310 Stephen
wondering if some serpent-like Mexican
was sliding toward him in the darkness,
and if the first thing he knew of it would
be the deadly sting of the knife. "Sssh," he
whispered to Jose. He drew his revolver
from under the blanket and held it on his
leg.
The blanket over the door fascinated him.
It was a vague form, black and unmoving.
Through the opening it shielded was to
come, probably, menace, death. Sometimes
he thought he saw it move.
As grim white sheets, the black and silver
of coffins, all the panoply of death, afTect us
because of that which they hide, so this
blanket, dangling before a hole in an adobe
wall, was to Richardson a horrible emblem,
and a horrible thing in itself. In his present
mood Richardson could not have been
brought to touch it with his finger.
The celebrating Mexicans occasionally
howled in song. The guitarist played with
speed and enthusiasm.
Richardson longed to run. But in this
threatening gloom, his terror convinced him
that a move on his part would be a signal
for the pounce of death. Jose, crouching
abjectly, occasionally mumbled. Slowly and
ponderous as stars the minutes went.
Suddenly Richardson thrilled and started.
His breath, for a moment, left him. In sleep
his nerveless fingers had allowed his re-
volver to fall and clang upon the hard floor.
He grabbed it up hastily, and his glance
swept apprehensively over the room.
A chill blue light of dawn was in the
place. Every outline was slowly growing;
detail was following detail. The dread
blanket did not move. The riotous com-
pany had gone or become silent.
Richardson felt in his blood the effect of
this cold dawn. The candor of breaking day
Crane
brought his nerve. He touched Jose.
"Come," he said. His servant lifted his
lined, yellow face and comprehended. Rich-
ardson buckled on his spurs and strode up;
Jose obediently lifted the two great saddles.
Richardson held two bridles and a blanket
on his left arm; in his right hand he held
his revolver. They sneaked toward the door.
The man who said that spurs jingled was
insane. Spurs have a mellow clash — clash —
clash. Walking in spurs — notably Mexican
spurs — you remind yourself vaguely of a
telegraphic lineman. Richardson was inex-
pressibly shocked when he came to walk.
He sounded to himself like a pair of cym-
bals. He would have known of this if he
had reflected; but then he was escaping, not
reflecting. He made a gesture of despair, and
from under the two saddles Jose tried to
make one of hopeless horror. Richardson
stooped, and with shaking fingers unfas-
tened the spurs. Taking them in his left
hand, he picked up his revolver, and they
slunk on toward the door.
On the threshold Richardson looked
back. In a corner he saw, watching him
with large eyes, the Indian man and woman
who had been his hosts. Throughout the
night they had made no sign, and now they
neither spoke nor moved. Yet Richardson
thought he detected meek satisfaction at his
departure.
The street was still and deserted. In the
eastern sky there was a lemon-colored patch.
Jose had picketed the horses at the side
of the house. As the two men came around
the corner, Richardson's animal set up a
whinny of welcome. The little horse had
evidently heard them coming. He stood
facing them, his ears cocked forward, his
eyes bright with welcome.
Richardson made a frantic gesture, but
the horse, in his happiness at the appear-
The Open Boat
3"
ance of his friends, whinnied with enthusi-
asm.
The American felt at this time that he
could have strangled his well-beloved steed.
Upon the threshold of safety he was being
betrayed by his horse, his friend. He felt the
same hate for the horse that he would have
felt for a dragon. And yet, as he glanced
wildly about him, he could see nothing
stirring in the street, nor at the doors of
the tomb-like houses.
Jose had his own saddle girth and both
bridles buckled in a moment. He curled
the picket-ropes with a few sweeps of his
arm. The fingers of Richardson, however,
were shaking so that he could hardly buckle
the girth. His hands were in invisible mit-
tens. He was wondering, calculating, hoping
about his horse. He knew the little animal's
willingness and courage under all circum-
stances up to this time, but then — here it
was different. Who could tell if some
wretched instance of equine perversity was
not about to develop? Maybe the little fel-
low would not feel like smoking over the
plain at express speed this morning, and so
he would rebel and kick and be wicked.
Maybe he would be without feeling of
interest, and run listlessly. All men who
have had to hurry in the saddle know what
it is to be on a horse who does not under-
stand the dramatic situation. Riding a lame
sheep is bliss to it. Richardson, fumbling
furiously at the girth, thought of these
things.
Presently he had it fastened. He swung
into the saddle, and as he did so his horse
made a mad jump forward. The spurs of
Jose scratched and tore the flanks of his
great black animal, and side by side the two
horses raced down the village street. The
American heard his horse breathe a quiver-
ing sigh of excitement.
Those four feet skimmed. Tliey were as
light as fairy puff-balls. Tiic houses of the
village glided past in a moment, and the
great, clear, silent plain appeared like a pale
blue sea of mist and wet bushes. Above the
mountains the colors of the sunlight were
like the first tones, the opening chords, of
the mighty hymn of the morning.
The American looked down at his horse.
He felt in his heart the first thrill of con-
fidence. The little animal, unurged and
quite tranquil, moving his ears this way and
that way with an air of interest in the scen-
ery, was nevertheless bounding into the eye
of the breaking day with the speed of a
frightened antelope. Richardson, looking
down, saw the long, fine reach of forelimb
as steady as steel machinery. As the ground
reeled past, the long dried grasses hissed,
and cactus-plants were dull blurs. A wind
whirled the horse's mane over his rider's
bridle hand.
Jose's profile was lined against the pale
sky. It was as that of a man who swims
alone in an ocean. His eyes glinted like
metal fastened on some unknown point
ahead of him, some mystic place of safety.
Occasionally his mouth puckered in a little
unheard cry; and his legs, bent back, worked
spasmodically as his spurred heels sliced
the flanks of his charger.
Richardson consulted the gloom in the
west for signs of a hard-riding, yelling caval-
cade. He knew that, whereas his friends the
enemy had not attacked him when he had
sat still and with apparent calmness con-
fronted them, they would certainly take
furiously after him now that he had run
from them — now that he had confessed to
them that he was the weaker. Their valor
would grow like weeds in the spring, and
upon discovering his escape they would ride
forth dauntless warriors.
312
Stephen
Sometimes he was sure he saw them.
Sometimes he was sure he heard them. Con-
tinually looking backward over his shoul-
der, he studied the purple expanses where
the night was marching away. Jose rolled
and shuddered in his saddle, persistently
disturbing the stride of the black horse,
fretting and worrying him until the white
foam flew and the great shoulders shone
like satin from the sweat.
At last Richardson drew his horse care-
fully down to a walk. Jose wished to rush
insanely on, but the American spoke to him
sternly. As the tv70 paced forward side by
side, Richardson's little horse thrust over his
soft nose and inquired into the black's con-
dition.
Riding with Jose was like riding with a
corpse. His face resembled a cast in lead.
Sometimes he swung forward and almost
pitched from his seat. Richardson was too
frightened himself to do anything but hate
this man for his fear. Finally he issued a
mandate which nearly caused Jose's eyes to
slide out of his head and fall to the ground
like two silver coins.
"Ride behind me — about fifty paces."
"Senor — " stuttered the servant.
"Go!" cried the American, furiously. He
glared at the other and laid his hand on his
revolver. Jose looked at his master wildly.
He made a piteous gesture. Then slowly
he fell back, watching the hard face of the
American for a sign of mercy.
Richardson had resolved in his rage that
at any rate he was going to use the eyes and
ears of extreme fear to detect the approach
of danger; and so he established his servant
as a sort of outpost.
As they proceeded he was obliged to
watch sharply to see that the servant did not
slink forward and join him. When Jose
made beseeching circles in the air with his
Crane
arm he replied by menacingly gripping his
revolver.
Jose had a revolver, too; nevertheless it
was very clear in his mind that the revolver
was distinctly an American weapon. He
had been educated in the Rio Grande coun-
try.
Richardson lost the trail once. He was
recalled to it by the loud sobs of his serv-
ant.
Then at last Jose came clattering forward,
gesticulating and wailing. The little horse
sprang to the shoulder of the black. They
were off.
Richardson, again looking backward,
could see a slanting flare of dust on the
whitening plain. He thought that he could
detect small moving figures in it.
Jose's moans and cries amounted to a uni-
versity course in theology. They broke con-
tinually from his quivering lips. His spurs
were as motors. They forced the black horse
over the plain in great headlong leaps.
But under Richardson there was a Httle
insignificant rat-colored beast who was run-
ning apparently with almost as much effort
as it requires for a bronze statue to stand
still. As a matter of truth, the ground
seemed merely something to be touched
from time to time with hoofs that were as
light as blown leaves. Occasionally Richard-
son lay back and pulled stoutly at his bridle
to keep from abandoning his servant.
Jose harried at his horse's mouth, flopped
around in the saddle, and made his two
heels beat like flails. The black ran like a
horse in despair.
Crimson scrapes in the distance resemble
drops of blood on the great cloth of plain.
Richardson began to dream of all pos-
sible chances. Although quite a humane
man, he did not once think of his servant.
Jose being a Mexican, it was natural that
The Open Boat
313
he should be killed in Mexico; but for him-
self, a New Yorker —
He remembered all the tales of such races
for life, and he thought them badly writ-
ten.
The great black horse v/as growing in-
different. The jabs of Jose's spurs no longer
caused him to bound forward in wild leaps
of pain. Jose had at last succeeded in
teaching him that spurring was to be ex-
pected, speed or no speed, and now he took
the pain of it dully and stolidly, as an animal
who finds that doing his best gains him no
respite.
Jose was turned into a raving maniac. He
bellowed and screamed, working his arms
and his heels like one in a fit. He resembled
a man on a sinking ship, who appeals to the
ship. Richardson, too, cried madly to the
black horse.
The spirit of the horse responded to
these calls, and, quivering and breathing
heavily, he made a great effort, a sort of
final rush, not for himself apparently, but
because he understood that his life's sacri-
fice, perhaps, had been invoked by these two
men who cried to him in the universal
tongue. Richardson had no sense of appre-
ciation at this time — he was too frightened
— but often now he remembers a certain
black horse.
From the rear could be heard a yelling,
and once a shot was fired — in the air, evi-
dently. Richardson moaned as he looked
back. He kept his hand on his revolver. He
tried to imagine the brief tumult of his cap-
ture — the flurry of dust from the hoofs of
horses pulled suddenly to their haunches,
the shrill biting curses of the men, die ring
of the shots, his own last contortion. He
wondered, too, if he could not somehow
manage to pelt that fat Mexican, just to cure
his abominable egotism.
It was Jose, the terror-stricken, who at last
discovered safety. Suddenly he gave a howl
of deliglit, and astonished his horse into a
new burst of speed. They were on a little
ridge at the time, and the American at the
top of it saw his servant gallop down the
slope and into the arms, so to speak, of a
small column of horsemen in gray and sil-
ver clothes. In the dim light of the early
morning they were as vague as shadows, but
Richardson knew them at once for a detach-
ment of rurales, that crack cavalry corps of
the Mexican army which polices the plain
so zealously, being of themselves the law
and the arm of it — a fierce and swift-moving
body that knows little of prevention, but
much of vengeance. They drew up sud-
denly, and the rows of great silver-trimmed
sombreros bobbed in surprise.
Richardson saw Jose throw himself from
his horse and begin to jabber at the leader
of the party. When he arrived he found
that his servant had already outlined the
entire situation, and was then engaged in
describing him, Richardson, as an American
sefior of vast wealth, who was the friend of
almost every governmental potentate within
two hundred miles. This seemed to pro-
foundly impress the officer. He bowed
gravely to Richardson and smiled signifi-
cantly at his men, who unslung their car-
bines.
The little ridge hid the pursuers from
view, but the rapid thud of their horses' feet
could be heard. Occasionally they yelled and
called to each odier.
Then at last they swept over the brow of
the hill, a wild mob of almost Rixs drunken
horsemen. When they discerned the pale-
uniformed rurales they were sailing down
the slope at top speed.
If tobo^crans half-wav down a hill should
suddenly make up tlieir minds to turn
314 Stephen
around and go back, there would be an
effect somewhat hke that now produced
by the drunken horsemen. Richardson saw
the rurales serenely swing their carbines
forward, and, peculiar-minded person that
he was, felt his heart leap into his throat at
the prospective volley. But the officer rode
forward alone.
It appeared that the man who owned the
best horse in diis astonished company was
the fat Mexican with the snaky moustache,
and, in consequence, this gentleman was
quite a distance in the van. He tried to pull
up, wheel his horse, and scuttle back over
the hill as some of his companions had done,
but the ofiBcer called to him in a voice harsh
with rage.
*' !" howled the officer. "This seiior is
my friend, the friend of my friends. Do you
dare pursue him, ? ! ! !
!" These lines represent terrible names.
all different, used by the officer.
The fat Mexican simply grovelled on his
horse's neck. His face was green; it could
be seen that he expected death.
The officer stormed with magnificent in-
tensity: " ! ! !"
Crane
Finally he sprang from his saddle and,
running to the fat Mexican's side, yelled:
"Go!" and kicked the horse in the belly
with all his might. The animal gave a
mighty leap into the air, and the fat Mexi-
can, with one wretched glance at the con-
templative rurales, aimed his steed for the
top of the ridge. Richardson again gulped
in expectation of a volley, for, it is said,
this is one of the favorite methods of the
rurales for disposing of objectionable people.
The fat, green Mexican also evidently
thought that he was to be killed while on
the run, from the miserable look he cast at
the troops. Nevertheless, he was allowed to
vanish in a cloud of yellow dust at the ridge-
top.
Jose was exultant, defiant, and, oh! bris-
tling with courage. The black horse was
drooping sadly, his nose to the ground.
Richardson's little animal, with his ears bent
forward, was staring at the horses of the
rurales as if in an intense study. Richardson
longed for speech, but he could only bend
forward and pat the shining, silken shoul-
ders. The little horse turned his head and
looked back gravely.
ANONYMOUS
Poor Old Horse
from COME HITHER
I found this poem in Walter de la Mares Come Hither. No date is
given, and the author is long since forgotten, but the sentiment and
simplicity have \ept the verses alive.
My clothing was once of the linsey woolsey
fine,
My tail it grew at length, my coat did like-
wise shine;
But now I'm growing old; my beauty does
decay.
My master frowns upon me; one day I
heard him say,
Foor old horse: poor old horse.
Once I was kept in the stable snug and warm.
To keep my tender limbs from any cold or
harm;
But now, in open fields, I am forced for to go,
In all sorts of weather, let it be hail, rain,
freeze, or snow.
Foor old horse: poor old horse.
Once I was fed on the very best corn and hay
That ever grew in yon fields, or in yon
meadows gay;
But now there's no such doing can I find
at all,
I'm glad to pick the green sprouts that grow
behind yon wall.
Foor old horse: poor old horse.
"You are old, you are cold, you are deaf, dull,
dumb and slow.
You are not fit for anything, or in my team
to draw.
You have eaten all my hay, you have spoiled
all my straw.
So hang him, whip, stick him, to the hunts-
man let him go.
Foor old horse: poor old horse.
My hide unto the tanners then I would freely
give.
My body to the hound dogs, I would rather
die than live,
Likewise my poor old bones that have carried
you many a mile,
Over hedges, ditches, brooks, bridges, like-
wise gates and stiles.
Foor old horse: poor old horse.
315
JAMES STEVENS (1892- )
Horses
from THE AMERICAN MERCURY (April, 1926)
The beauty and the peace in this writing is soul-satisfying. The picture
of the little boy overcoming his fear of the supposedly terrifying team
is so convi7ici7ig that one almost climbs up into the driver's seat along
with him to help tmth the reins. The whole tale is delightful from
beginning to end, and completely di'Qerent from any other that 1 have
ever read.
I
s a boy in a prairie town I early
learned to revere the work horse.
To me, as to all boys, a dog was
a slave, but a horse was a hero. And the men
who handled him were heroes, too. On
summer Saturday mornings I would lie in
the grass under a maple tree, drowse in the
heavy prairie heat, and watch the town-
going farmers pass. The surrey and buggy
teams never touched my fancy; I could see
such light, lively horses any day in the town
streets and in the livery barn. And the
rough-haired, scrawny, hungry-eyed teams
of the shiftless Soap Crickers were beneath
notice, of course. But let me catch sight of a
team of work horses such as Mister Barrick
drove; and then how I would lift my head,
prop my chin on my fists, look with wide
eyes, and feel the glow of a waking dream !
The road, with a cloddy ridge in the cen-
ter and a wheel-marked path on each side,
ran straight down a small hill and twisted
sharply into the green trees of Elm Hollow.
From these trees sounded the lusty rumble
of a lumber-wagon and the jingle of harness.
Suddenly the massive heads of two gray
horses emerged from the greenery. There
was a flash of polished brass from the
studded ornamental tabs of leather that
flapped over their wide foreheads, and a
shine from the small colored rings which
were strapped in their headstalls. Their big
hoofs struck the wagon tracks forcefully as
they tramped soberly on. A red neck-yoke
hung from heavy breast-straps, and it swung
now to the right, now to the left, as the
front wheels rolled into chuck holes and
jerked the tongue. At each swing there was
a sharp tug at the stout oak hames of the
horses, but they tramped on unwaveringly.
Their bodies came into full view. Short,
thick necks, and waving curly manes. Im-
mensely wide shoulders and deep chests,
316
Horses
317
the dappled gray hair rippling over moving
bands and rolls of muscle, the thick leather
traces tight over the w^ide shoulders and fat
sides. What broad, inviting backs under the
brass-studded leather of the backhands! It
looked as if you could spread out a bed on
one of their backs and go to sleep there.
The breeching slipped from broad hip to
broad hip and tightened and loosened over
round, thick buttocks. The gray tails,
brushed glossy and clean by Mister Barrick,
sv^ung out in sv^eeping waves at the pestifer-
ous summer flies.
The v^heels of the rumbling w^agon were
yellow; the wagon box was green, with
strips and curlicues of red for decoration.
The spring seat slanted to the right under
the weight of Mister Barrick. He himself
was a regular work-horse of a man. A straw
hat shaded his eyes, a brown beard curled
over his cheeks and chin, and between
suspenders and sleeve-holders muscles
bulged the cloth of his hickory shirt. He
rode with a straight back, and he drove
with tight lines. Mister Barrick was as proud
of himself as he was of his clean wagon
and fat, glossy work-horses.
How great and strong Bob and Jake ap-
peared as they plodded into the shade of
my maple tree ! They were the strongest and
most dangerous horses in the whole coun-
try, but Mister Barrick could do anything
with them. I knew, for he often let me ride
with him on the days when he hauled milk
to the cheese factory. "Whoa-ah!" he would
say, and the big gray horses would stop
dead still as soon as he said it. And they
certainly didn't dare to make a move while
I was climbing up and up, just about twenty-
five feet, to the spring seat. And then, when
Mister Barrick clucked and said, "Giddap!"
those horses stepped ahead before the word
was out of his mouth.
There couldn't be anything more exciting
than to ride with Mister Barrick to the
cheese factory. You were so high in the air
that if you were to fall off it would certainly
break every bone in your body. And Bob
and Jake were so dangerous and strong
that if they were to run away — and they
were ready to break and go at the least ex-
cuse, Mister Barrick said — they would sim-
ply smash everything behind them to
smithereens.
"I have to be on the watch every second,"
Mister Barrick would say. **Thcy ain't ay-
nother man around who could hold 'em."
And I'd feel his muscle and notice how
big his hands looked around the lines ; and
I'd stare at the broad backs and broader
hips of the horses as they tramped soberly
on; and I'd get to feeling that I was no
bigger than a fly, and that Bob and Jake
were the greatest horses in the world, and
that Mister Barrick was the greatest of he-
roes to handle them as he did. I played horse
a lot; and whenever I did I was always
Mister Barrick driving Bob and Jake to the
cheese factory.
On Saturday Mister Barrick hauled noth-
ing but produce to sell at the stores. He
never asked me to ride with him then. But
he spoke to me as he drove into the shade
of my maple tree. He looked down soberly
from the great height of the wagon seat,
and his voice boomed through his brown
curly beard:
"Mornin', bub. How air yuh? Still a
Democrat, I s'pose."
Mister Barrick and I acrreed on almost
everything but politics.
*'Good mornin'. Mister Barrick." I said.
"I'm fine as silk and I'm still a Democrat.
And how are you and Bob and Jake.^^"
"Perty well, thanky. And Bob and Jake
is wild and dangerous as ever they was. Ef I
31 8 ]ai77cs
didn't watch 'em like a hawk they'd leave
nothin' of me but a grease spot!"
The last words were spoken loudly over
his shoulder. I only watched and dreamed
then, while Mister Barrick and his big, fat
horses turned a corner and moved out of
sight. It made my heart pound whenever
Jake threw his big head down, snorted
against his knees and chomped the bit.
Wasn't he a savage, though! And Bob was
about as bad. What a brave, strong man
Mister Barrick was! I'd dream I was away
up there in his place, watching Bob and
Jake with the eye of a hawk; and didn't I
hold them down, though, when they tried
to break and run ... I
"Just to think of you driving that terrible
big team!" exclaimed Inez Hartley, the
banker's beautiful daughter. "I'd never im-
agined you could do anything so wonder-
ful!"
"Fear not. It is nothing," I replied calmly.
"Robert and Jacob know their master."
"But I fear to go riding with you through
the wood," said the banker's beautiful
daughter. "Are there not redskins lurking
in the wood.f^"
"Fear not," I replied sternly. "Robert and
Jacob will bear us safely through all perils.
I will have you fly with me, Inez — "
"Preacher's stuck on Inez! Haw! Haw!
Haw! Preacher's stuck on Inez!"
Robert and Jacob and the banker's beau-
tiful daughter vanished at the sound of Stub
Crumley's voice. With a vile grin on his
wretched freckled face, he leered down at
me as I rolled over in the grass.
"Talkin' to hisself about Inez Hartley!
Haw! Haw! Haw!"
He stepped closer ; and I grabbed his bare
leg; and after we had wrassled around in
the grass for ten minutes we were having so
much fun that we both forgot about Robert
Stevens
and Jacob and the banker's beautiful daugh-
ter. At dinner time we made it up to go to
the town square together to spend the long,
lazy afternoon.
II
In the center of the town square was a
small park. It was fenced by chains bolted
to stout posts. Every summer Saturday after-
noon the park was circled by farmers' teams,
which were hitched to the chains. Many of
us town boys would gather in the park after
Saturday dinner; and our first activity,
as a rule, was to look over the teams and
argue about the horses. Some of the boys
were familiar with horses and were brave
enough to pet the most sleepy-eyed ones.
Sometimes we would climb into wagons and
pretend that we were stage-coaching it
through the Far West. But we never got to
play in Mister Barrick's wagon on Saturday
afternoons. He always put Bob and Jake
in the livery barn.
All of the farmers who took good care
of their horses did the same; and the poorer
farmers who left their teams at the park
always gathered at the livery barn to chew
the rag for a spell before they started for
home. The town boys always came around
when the crowd began to gather. There
were always interesting stories, gossip and
political arguments to be heard; and usually
there was a lot of instructive horse talk. I
seldom missed a Saturday afternoon at the
livery barn, for Mister Barrick was a friend
of mine, and he was always the leader in
the arguments about horses. But he was
never too interested or excited to stop his
talk for a second, grin down through his
brown curly beard at me, and say, "How air
yuh, bub.?"
Stub Crumley didn't have anything to say
about Inez Hartley then. He would only
look at me with humble envy for being so
famihar with Mister Barrick, who was Hs-
tened to by everybody in the Hvery barn as
he proved to a man who drove Morgans
how superior Percherons were to Morgans,
and to Clydes, Belgians and French Coaches
as well.
His argument was particularly warm this
afternoon, because Humbert, the famous
thousand-dollar Percheron stallion, was due
at the livery barn. Humbert had been adver-
tised like an opera-house show; big cards
showing a fine picture of him had been
tacked up at the livery barn and the feed
store two weeks before. The description was
high-sounding poetry, but the town boys
made out from it that Humbert was a for-
eigner, a genuine French horse. We talked a
great deal about Humbert; he had been
brought clear across the ocean, and he was
worth such a pile of money ! And he looked
so tremendously big and so awfully wild
and dangerous in his picture that I asked
Mister Barrick if, taking it all around and
by and large, he wasn't more of a horse
than Bob and Jake.
"Shucks, no," said Mister Barrick sol-
emnly. "Shucks, no. Bob and Jake are
work-horses. And Humbert never done a
tap of work in his life. How can you ask if
he is a better horse .f^"
"What's Humbert good for then. Mister
Barrick, if he ain't strong and dangerous
like Bob and Jake are?" I asked. "Why do
they brag him up so much then ?"
"He's the best Perch'on stallion in the
county, that's why," said Mister Barrick.
Being just an eight-year-old town boy,
Perch'on stallion meant nothing to me ; but
the words sounded fine, and I thought
Humbert must be something wonderful.
And now Humbert was being driven into
the livery barn. He was wonderful; any-
Horses 319
body could sec that. Humbert was every
bit as big as Bob or Jake, and he looked a
lot more dangerous and strong. How the
muscles rolled under his glossy dappled
gray hair! What a thick neck he had, and
how he did curvet it as he tossed his head,
snorted and cavorted around! Humbert
wouldn't stand still, hut kept up a kind of
heavy dance. There was the wickedest flash
in his eye, as he rolled his gaze toward the
crowd, snorting all the time.
"I hear he killed a man in Dcs Moines,"
said the Morgan man to Mister Barrick.
"That's why they brought him down here."
"I don't believe it," declared Mister Bar-
rick. "Perch'ons is the gentlest horses alive,
even the studs."
I laughed to myself, for I knew that
Mister Barrick was only codding the Mor-
gan man. Mister Barrick had told me too
many times how dangerous Bob and Jake
were for me to swallow any talk about Per-
cherons being so gentle as all that.
Still, I was considerably puzzled; for if
Humbert was so strong, why was he
hitched to a cart that I could have pulled
myself ? Mister Barrick's wagon was a thou-
sand times heavier. And that fat, red-faced
man who was driving Humbert looked like
he didn't have any muscle at all and had
never done a lick of work in his life. Hum-
bert couldn't be so dangerous if this man
handled him. I'd never thought actually
that I could handle Bob and Jake; but if
this little fat man could handle Humbert,
I expected I could, too. He couldn't be so
much —
Just then Humbert commenced to faunch
around, snorting and shaking his head, and
stamping so hard on the floor that he shook
the whole barn ; and then he let out a neigh
that was a regular ripper; and even Mister
Barrick backed away with the other farm-
320 James
crs. But the little fat man just took hold
of Humbert's bit and talked low to him.
In no time at all the stallion was quieted
down.
"He's a whisperer," said the Morgan
man. "Best horse-handler in the county."
Then Humbert was unhitched and the
little fat man led him down between the
rows of dark stalls. Humbert neighed again
in his wild way as he was led along. The
livery man chased us boys from the barn.
"You young uns skedaddle!" he said
sharply.
"I guess they're goin' to have a horse
fight, maybe," I said, as we walked reluc-
tantly away.
Bill Huff, a ten-year-old boy who had
lived on a farm, began to laugh like a fool,
and he waggled his finger under my nose.
"Preacher thinks they's goin' to be a
horse fight!" he jeered. "Jest lis'en! Preacher
thinks they's goin' to be a horse fight!"
Some of the older boys began to laugh
and jeer, too, or I'd have shown Bill Huff
how smart he was right then and there. But
I wasn't fool enough to try to show a whole
gang how smart they were; so I got Stub
Crumley, and we went home and played
catch in an alley until supper time. But
every once in a while I'd wonder about
Humbert. He was a mystery to me, and he
stayed so for a long time.
Ill
It wasn't so long, however, until I got on
more familiar terms with Bob and Jake.
My folks planned a three-day visit to the
county seat. I was to stay with a neighbor
until they returned. I didn't like the idea,
and I told Mister Barrick so one morning
when I rode with him to the cheese fac-
tory.
Stevens
"Why don't you come out and stay with
me and maw.^^" said Mister Barrick. "We'd
take keer of you, and I 'low you'd be a lot
of help, too."
That idea certainly excited me; and when
I got home I bawled until it was agreed that
I should have my way. Two days later I
was riding behind Bob and Jake as they
tramped over a road that twisted and
turned and led up and down through fields
of timothy, clover and corn, past orchards,
pastures and ponds. Mister Barrick didn't
say much, except to answer my questions;
and after about an hour I got tired of ask-
ing questions, and just looked around at the
country and dreamed.
The sky was a hazy blue, the sun seemed
to just pour its light down, and the air was
still, thick and hot. It was easy to drowse.
The green blades of the young corn were
quiet, and the heads of timothy on long
slender stems were quiet, too. When we
passed an orchard I could hear all kinds of
buzzy sounds in the deep grass among the
trees. I could hear every plomp of the
horses' feet in the dusty road. Each wheel
had a rumble of its own as it bumped along.
Sweat stains spread over the backs of Bob
and Jake, where the backhands and breech-
ing pressed. A sharp smell came up from
them.
I got to looking as far out and away as I
could. Over yonder some red cattle were
lying in the shade of elm trees on the bank
of a pond. The water of the pond looked
cool and the green grass of the pasture was
like a smooth carpet — I'd like to wade
through that grass barefooted, I thought,
and then go swimming in the pond with
Stub Crumley: it was so blamed hot and
drowsy. Beyond the pond was the biggest
cornfield I had ever seen. It ran away and
away, out into the hazy sky. A man was
*v<iinsr^
^.; 'i
Horses
cultivating the young corn. His team
plodded and plodded on until there was
only one small speck and two larger ones
where the green of the field and the blue
of the sky melted together in a haze.
I looked out at the specks and tried to
fancy some fine things about them; and
then it did seem as though I was in a corn-
field myself. But I wasn't on a cultivator;
I was on a cart, and I was driving Humbert,
who seemed to have become the best-
natured horse alive, for he would turn his
head, wink his bright eye, and smile in the
friendliest way every once in a while as I
drove him on toward the far haze. The cart
rolled on very smoothly, and Humbert
looked friendlier every time he smiled back
at me; and I knew that we were going on
and on through the corn until we reached
the Chariton River; and there I'd find Inez
Hartley, the banker's beautiful daughter;
and wouldn't she be proud and surprised to
see me driving Humbert, and wouldn't we
have the happiest time . . . !
"Wake up, young un. We're 'most home."
I blinked at the sound of Mister Bar-
rick's voice. I felt that my head was resting
on something hard and yet alive — and then
I discovered that I'd been asleep and was
lying against Mister Barrick's strong left
arm. He looked down very kindly as I
straightened myself and yawned.
"I pert' nigh went to sleep myself," said
Mister Barrick. "It's that hot. And ef I had
I bet Bob and Jake wouldn't of left more'n
two grease spots of us!"
He stopped the team then, for he had
reached his gate. Mister Barrick stepped
down to the wheel and jumped to the
ground. I was scared half to death right
then, for he had left the lines in my hands.
Never had Bob and Jake looked so big.
Never, it seemed, had I been so high in the
321
air. But somehow I held my breath and
clutched the big lines tightly as Mister Bar-
rick opened the gate. He clucked and Vxh
and Jake moved ahead. The lines tugged
at my hands. The spring scat swayed under
me. The wheels jolted over a culvert. Far
below I saw Mister Barrick as the wagon
passed the gate. Ahead was a barn lot as
big as a hay field, and a monster barn. Bob
and Jake were sticking up their cars. Oh,
lordy, what would hapjx-n now ? I shut my
eyes.
"Stop 'em, bub," called Mister Barrick.
Somehow I got out a weak whoa-ah ; and I
had never felt so good in my life as I did
when Bob and Jake stopped dead still.
Then Mister Barrick walked on toward the
barn. The horses tramped soberly behind
him. Nobody was holding their lines but
me! And suddenly I felt a thrill of reckless
joy. Let 'em run and leave only a grease
spot of me, if they wanted to — maybe they
wouldn't run, either — and if they didn't,
and I came through alive, what I would
have to tell to the town boys ! I was driving
the biggest, strongest and most dangerous
team in the whole county ! Shucks, they were
not going to run; they saw Mister Barrick
ahead of them, and they knew they hadn't
better. And for a good minute I had the
most fun I ever had had. And I certainly
hated it when Bob and Jake got to the place
where Mister Barrick always unhitched. I
wanted to help him unhitch, but he sent
me on to the house.
"You tell maw I said fer you to have some
cookies and milk," said Mister Barrick.
Mrs. Barrick seemed very glad to see me,
though she had a sharp, cranky way of talk-
ing. She had to get around the house in a
wheel-chair, as she had been crippled in a
runaway a little while after she and Mister
Barrick were married. Mister Barrick had
:22
]atnes
shot the runaway horses and had hated fast
ones ever since, people said. She managed to
do her own kitchen work, wheeHng her
chair around, and Mister Barrick did all the
house-cleaning.
Mrs. Barrick was in her wheel-chair on
the back porch when I came up to the farm-
house. There were morning glory vines all
over the back porch, and her chair was in
the shade. When I told her what Mister
Barrick had said she snapped: "Law! That
man!" Then she looked me over from head
to foot. ''Law! You've ripped a button from
your shirt, young un. Come here till I pin
it up." And after I'd let her fuss with my
shirt all she wanted to, she got a kind of
smile in her black eyes, and told me to go
to the pantry and help myself. After I did so
I came back to the porch, and Mrs. Barrick
sat and smoked her pipe and asked ques-
tions, and I sat and ate cookies and drank
cool milk and answered them.
The poor soul, as my folks called her,
didn't get around very much, and she appre-
ciated even a boy like me to visit with. I was
polite to Mrs. Barrick and answered her
questions as well as I could, but all the time
I wanted to be out at the barn with Mister
Barrick and Bob and Jake.
He came in after a while and built a fire
in the kitchen stove. I helped Mrs. Barrick
get supper, just as Mister Barrick told me
to do, while he went out to get the cows in
and begin the chores. Mrs. Barrick got nicer
to me all the time; she asked me what I
liked best to eat; and when I said, "Fried
chicken and jelly layer cake and roas'in' ears,
I guess," she said she'd have some tomorrow
or know the reason why. I got to feeling
very much at home with Mrs. Barrick, but
I did want to be out at the barn. Mister
Barrick might let me give Bob and Jake
their corn.
Stevens
But I didn't get out to the barn until the
next morning. Mrs. Barrick kept thinking
of new questions; and after supper it was
tlie same thing over again as we washed
the dishes; and after Mister Barrick came
in we all sat in the front room, with the
windows open, while Mrs. Barrick smiled
at me, and asked questions.
Mister Barrick just sat in his sock feet,
leaned back in his rocker, with his hands
clasped behind his head most of the time,
smoked his pipe, smiled at his wife and me,
and said hardly a word the whole evening.
I wasn't used to having so much attention
paid to me, and I was proud of it, though it
wasn't very exciting.
At bedtime Mister Barrick took me up to
a room that had a big feather bed in it. He
set the lamp on a bureau and turned the
sheets down as if he was used to it. He stood
in the door for a minute before he went
back downstairs.
"Ain't homesick, air yuh, bub ?"
"No, I ain't. Not a particle, Mister Bar-
rick."
"That's the ticket. I 'low I have yuh help
cultivate some tomorrer."
"With Bob and Jake, Mister Barrick.?"
1 spect.
"Golly! I'm mighty glad I come out to
your place. Mister Barrick!"
"Wal — good night, bub. Hope yuh sleep
good. Be keerful of the light."
He stood in the door for another second,
staring at me, and pulling at his beard with
a big, hairy hand. Then he turned around
and tramped down the stairs. I could hear
him and his wife talking, and they were still
talking after I was in bed.
It was so hot I didn't sleep good in the
early part of the night. Once I woke up and
looked out into the moonlight. I thought I
saw Mister Barrick tramping up and down
Horses
V-Z
in the barn lot. But I was drowsy and I
dozed off again before I could think about
it very much.
IV
It was fine and cool the next morning
when I went out to the barn with Mister
Barrick. We had eaten a good breakfast,
and now we were going to feed the young
stock. The cows had already been milked
and fed. Bob and Jake had finished their
corn and were nibbling at the timothy in
their manger. They looked up and
nickered when we came into the barn.
Mister Barrick fetched Jake a slap on the
hips as we walked behind them. I jumped
a foot, for I expected Jake to kick us into
pieces. But he only switched his tail. We
went on through the barn and came to a
pen with a shed in one side of it. There
was a bed of straw in the shed; and on the
straw were eight of the funniest and cutest
pigs I had ever seen. They were just finish-
ing their breakfast, and their fat mother was
grunting for them to get away and leave
her alone. Mister Barrick helped me into the
pen; and then he picked up one of the pigs
and let it chew his fingers. And he told me
to do the same with another. The little
rascal chewed away for all he was worth,
but he didn't hurt my hand the least bit.
Mister Barrick and I had a lot of fun with
the pigs, their mother grunting in a sus-
picious way all the time; and then we fed
the calves skimmed milk and played with
them for a while. One of the calves was a
regular baby; and it was so wobbly-legged
and owl-eyed, and it looked so funny and
cute when it would hoist its tail and try
to run, and then stop and look at me and
baa, that I'd have stayed and played with
it all day if Mister Barrick hadn't needed
me to help him with the cultivating.
We left the calves and fed corn to the
chickens and the shoats; and then wc
leaned on the pasture fence for a while, and
Mister Barrick showed me Bob's and Jake's
mother. She was a big gray Perchcron, too,
and there was a frolicsome little colt with
her. Her name was Grace, and the colt
hadn't been given a name yet. Grace
tramped up to the fence as Mister Barrick
and I were talking and stood there while
he scratched her neck. I tried to get the
colt to come to me; but he would only
stick out his nose, smell my fingers, shake
his head and snort a couple of times, then
back away and look at me suspiciously. He
wasn't nearly so friendly as the calf was,
but I liked him about as well anyhow. I
certainly was enjoying myself. The air
smelled sweet as it blew from the dewy
pasture grass. The red and white cows were
moving toward the elms that marked the
pond. All over the barn lot the hens were
singing their clucking songs. But the old
prairie sun was beginning to warm things
up.
"Time for us to git to work," said Mister
Barrick.
When he had harnessed Bob and Jake
and led them out of the barn, he took me
by the arm.
"Pile on, bub," he said, "and we'll ride
out to the field."
"Ain't — ain't they pretty dangerous to
ride. Mister Barrick.^"
"Not to ride — no. Jest out on the road.
You pile on old Jake now and hang to the
hames."
I was scared, but I wouldn't back down;
so up I w^ent; and there I was, astraddle one
of the biggest, strongest and most dangerous
horses in the county, riding out to cultivate
corn!
That was the most wonderful and excit-
James
ing day I had ever known. I didn't only
ride the big Percheron out to the cornfield ;
but after Mister Barrick had made a couple
of rounds with the cultivator, he put me up
in the seat and gave me the lines, and
there I was again, driving this great team
down the corn rows, their big hips looming
high above me, their heads swinging gee
when I pulled gee and swinging haw when
I pulled haw. And they stopped when I
yelled whoa and went ahead when I yelled
giddap. And Mister Barrick walked so
quietly behind me that I could imagine he
was Inez Hartley or Stub Crumley or any-
body I wanted to.
That evening I went to the field again,
drove some more rounds with Mister Bar-
rick, and helped him unhitch at six o'clock.
He had brought the wagon out at noon and
I got permission to drive it back. I felt that
I was the boss of Bob and Jake now. They
might be strong and dangerous, but I could
handle them. As they neared the barn they
broke into a heavy trot and I let them go.
The wagon bumped and rumbled, dust
rolled up from the thumping hoofs, and
I declared to myself that no stage-driver
of the Far West ever drove faster than I
was driving then. And at supper Mister
Barrick said to Mrs. Barrick:
"You ought to seen that boy handle Bob
and Jake! Ain't 'nuther boy nigh his age
could handle sech a dangerous team, I bet."
"Law! How you do go on about Bob and
Jake!" said Mrs. Barrick in her sharp way.
But she smiled over at me. I was very
proud; and after I'd filled up on fried
chicken and jelly layer cake and roasting
ears and milk I felt so good that it seemed
Stevens
like I had never lived at all before. I wanted
to stay with Mister and Mrs. Barrick and
Bob and Jake forever.
But the next two days went by so fast
that I could hardly count them. Then I was
in town again, with about seven hundred
fine stories to tell to Stub Crumley and
Inez Hartley. And I could put Bill Huff
in his place, too. He might have lived on
a farm once, but he had never cultivated
corn with a team like Bob and Jake. He
might know all about Humbert, but Mister
Barrick didn't let hhn drive Bob and Jake
through town to the cheese factory.
Mister Barrick and I were always good
friends while I lived in that town. He and
Mrs. Barrick always liked me to come out
and stay at their place. I liked him so much
that it bothered me because it seemed that
he slept poorly. Several times when I was
out at his place I heard him tramp to the
barn in the middle of the night. Finally
I asked him about it. As I might have
known, it was on account of his horses.
"I worry about Bob and Jake fightin' at
night," he said.
Mrs. Barrick usually spoke sharply to him
for being foolish about his horses, but she
didn't say a word now. And I said:
"You certainly do take fine care of your
stock, Mister Barrick."
And he did. Mister Barrick seemed to
love even the little pigs. But he thought the
most of Bob and Jake and their mother,
Grace. It was because I appreciated them
so much, I guess, that he liked to have me
come out to his place and always let me
ride with him to the cheese factory.
ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE (1883- )
Loreine: a Horse
jrom THE SATURDAY REVIEW OF LITERATURE
(September, 1926)
This descriptive poem gives, in verse, the same feeling that Helen Dore
Boylston, gives us in Lady of Leisure; to everyone who has owned horses
it will bring to mind some favorite mount.
She lifted up her head
With the proud incredible poise
Of beauty recovered
From the Mycenaen tombs.
She opened her nostrils
With the wild arrogance
Of life that knows nothing
Except that it is life.
Her slender legs
Quivered above the soft grass.
Her hard hooves
Danced among the dandelions.
Her great dark eyes
Saw all that could be seen.
Her large lips
Plucked at my coat-sleeve.
All the wisdom of the prophets
Vanished into laughter
As Loreine lifted her small foot
And pawed the air.
All the learning of the sages
Turned to ribald rubrics
When that proud head
Looked at a passing cloud.
And so, amid this godless
God-hungry generation,
Let us, my friends, take Loreine
And worship her.
She would demand nothing.
Nor would she utter thunders.
She is living, and real.
And she is beautiful.
325
JOHAN BOJER (1872- )
Skobelef Was a Horse
from THE COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE (1921)
Not a long story, this, hut one which will stic\ in your memory. It has
the delightful flavor of Norway in it, the down-to-earthiness of the
peasant. The description of the horse in the act of being harnessed is
unusually vivid. Though the end is tragic, one does not feel too sad.
In spite of the fact that the horse, in the flesh, is made very real, he
seems to be an almost legendary animal with his raw eggs and brandy;
and one thinhj of him as an existent part of Norwegian folklore. The
quiet humor of the tale with its sly insinuations adds to the savoriness
of the morsel.
kobelef was a horse. He lived at the
time when on Sunday morning
the church bells rang, not in vain
across deserted roads and sleeping farms,
but across a valley that woke up to life
under the deep boom of their sonorous call.
Come, comCy
Old and young.
Old and young.
Rich and poor.
Fisherman, dalesman.
Huntsmen from moor.
From forest and sea.
Come, come to me.
Peter and Paul and Ole, from Vang,
Vang, Vang,
And Mori and Cari from Renstali, -li, -li;
From mountains and valley
From islands at sea.
Come, come to me.
All roads would be darkened with people
going churchwards, walking or driving.
There were old men, with a big stick in one
hand and a hat in the other, coat over arm,
and gray homespun trousers turned up
high over strong boots shiny with grease.
The women walked sedately, covered with
shawls and prayer-books in hand, smelling
of the scent on the ends of their handker-
chiefs. The lake would swarm with boats
that darted out from farmsteads on the
other side, and white sails would dot the
fiord. Even in the mountains the cowbells
seemed to stop tinkling and the boy would
lift his long lur (a birch-bark trumpet) to
his lips and send a long sounding greeting
down towards the valley. Thus Sunday was
kept then. Sunday was a real holy day.
Now, at so great a distance, it seems as if
326
S^obelef Was a Horse
all Sundays were sunny and the forest was
ever green in those days. The old tar-brown
church among the huge trees did not seem
to be a building any longer; it became a
supernatural being. It bore the aspect of
something all-knowing. It was hundreds
and hundreds of years old. It had seen the
dead when they were alive going to church
like ourselves. The churchyard around it
was a tiny town of wooden crosses and
flat stones, the grass grew high among the
sunken mounds. We knew that the sexton
cut it for his cows, and drinking a cup of
milk in his house was like communing with
the spirits of the dead. His milk was to us
a kind of angel's drink which made us feel
good after tasting it
We boys used to wait outside the church
and act like the grown-ups. We reviewed
those coming after us. We judged them by
their looks; and they felt it.
The cripple would shrink and try to hide
among the crowd; the important men
calmly met the glances of friends and foes
alike; the pretty girls looked down, smiling.
We boys were always seeking somebody in
the crowd, a hero for worship, a man for
a model. We too should be grown-ups one
day.
There was the new schoolmaster now. He
walked upright, dressed in homespun with
all his buttons buttoned, a white starched
collar, a hard felt hat and an umbrella. He
was a step up from a plain farmer's lad.
Evidently we should all have to go to a
training college. Later, however, a butcher
arrived from town, in blue broadcloth, with
a gold chain across a white waistcoat, with
white cuffs, a snowy white shirt and col-
lar, and a white straw hat. He was a vision
crushing the new teacher to dust beneath
his feet. Evidently we should all have to
learn the butcher's trade when we grew up.
The great men who influenced our day-
dreams were numerous. It was a moment
of emotion when for the first time wc be-
held a solicitor from town. He was a right
royal man; he even wore an ornament on
his nose, a pair of gold-trimmed eyeglasses.
From that day our ambition was unbridled.
We were not at all sure of the feasibility
of a liberal education, but everyone was
resolved to read sufficiently hard to develop
bad eyes and be com^xrllcd to wear eye-
glasses.
Then Skobelef arrived. And Skobelef was
not a man; he was a horse.
For weeks beforehand little legs ran from
farm to farm with the great news. Peter
Lo had acquired a new Government stal-
lion. He was not merely an animal on four
legs; he was a fairytale by himself. Six men
had enough to do to get him off the
steamer, yet there was one man who could
master him, unaided. That man was Peter
Lo. He — ^not Peter Lo, of course ; Peter Lo
was only a man — walked mostly on his
hind legs, and he whinnied even in his
sleep. He was so wild that he had killed
several men. And his name was Skobelef.
What do you think Skobelef had to eat.*^
No, not hay, nor chafi*, nor oats. No,
Skobelef had uncooked eggs with brandy
for meals.
And they said Peter Lo and the stallion
took their wonderful strengthening food
out of the same manger. They both needed
something invigorating.
One Sunday the crowd of boys outside
the church stood looking along the valley
road in great, though subdued, excitement.
Peter Lo was expected to come to church
driving no less a horse than Skobelef
himself.
The long procession of vehicles from the
328 ]ohan Bojer
farther valley arrived, swelling with fresh
buggies from every side-road, until it
formed an unbroken line, like a grand
bridal procession.
That day we judged the drivers by their
horses. What a diversity of fates passed
before our eyes! Fat horses and lean, fresh
horses and tired. There were old big-bellied
crocks, long-necked and raw-boned, whose
heads sank low earthwards at each step —
as if infinitely weary. Then would come
fine beasts diat reminded the onlookers of
rich crops and swelling bank accounts.
There was perhaps a mare, the mother of
many foals and ready to mother all the
world. Once in a while a fiord pony with
long fur would pull hard at a heavy gig;
he was small enough to make one think of
a mouse. Then an old red horse with big
watery eyes and shaky knees would stare
in astonishment, as if asking why he was
not free to rest even on Sunday. Then there
were virtuous mares' faces ready to declare
that all the world was vanity; then again
madcap youngsters whinnying to all the
world.
Look at that red gelding! Why is he
spattered with mud right up to his belly?
He came from a farm far away in the
mountains. Since early in the morning he
has been plodding across bogs and moors,
through brooks and rivers, until when
finally he reached the valley a buggy was
borrowed for him. He will have had a hard
day's work before he reaches Jhis mountain
home again.
What a long procession it is! But where
is Peter Lo ? Where is Skobelef ?
One trap came by itself, far behind all
the others. It was still far away, but came
on rapidly. Many hundred eyes were fixed
on it.
The church bells were booming. Most of
the horses were unhitched and tied up to
the massive ash trees. They were biting
their hay impassively. Suddenly, however,
all heads were raised and even the old
crocks, arching their necks, tried to look
down the road.
Then came Peter Lo. There was Skobelef.
He came trotting before the buggy, black,
broad on dancing hoofs, with his long-
haired fetlocks streaming, his mane flowing
thickly over his neck, his eyes two gleams
of lightning; and from behind both ears the
blue ribbons of the prize-winner waved in
the air.
He lifted his head and seemed to drink
in the very day. He took dominion over
the whole of the landscape. Then he lifted
his voice and pierced the air with a signal
that echoed back from the mountain-sides.
Peter Lo was in the buggy, calmly hold-
ing slack reins. He was not yet more than
thirty-five, broad-shouldered, full-blooded,
with a smile in one corner of his mouth,
and a tuft of brown beard under his chin.
Alas, his wife beside him was so much
older than he, every feature of her face
drooped — cheeks, eyes, mouth — and when
she spoke, her voice had the quality of an
unceasing wail. But Peter Lo loved every-
thing that was beautiful, even when it was
not his own. When Skobelef whinnied to
his lady friends, Peter glanced toward his
acquaintances in the crowd, smiling. Sko-
belef stopped, felt the whip, and tried to
rear; the whip fell once more and he trotted
with long strides up the lane to the parson-
age, the crowd following, we boys foremost.
It was a sight for eager eyes even to
watch Peter Lo leading Skobelef from the
shafts of the buggy in through the stable
door.
Skobclej Was a Ilone
P9
Peter Lo was very well groomed that
day. His fine horse had evidently increased
his self-respect. His gray suit was well
brushed; he wore a hard felt hat like the
teacher's, and while leading his horse his
shining shoes had to step high once in a
while. The crowd stared with all its eyes.
The stable door swallowed the wonderful
apparition but in a little while Peter Lo
returned, wiping horse's hair from his
hands. Treading carefully so as not to soil
those very shiny shoes, he slowly ap-
proached the church, the crowd following.
Peter Lo mounted the steps leading up
to die "armory" which is still the word for
a church porch in rural Norway, remi-
niscent of the times when every man carried
his weapons about with him, leaving them,
however, outside God's House. Peter Lo
entered the church, sat down in a pew,
produced his hymn-book and started to
sing. The crowd did what he did, and the
singing increased in volume.
But we youngsters kept watch outside
the stable door. Luckily the door was
locked, for what might not have happened
if Skobelef had been let out on his own ?
, Suddenly we heard a clanking in there
and the stamping of hoofs; now and then
the walls trembled with his whinnying.
How thrilling! We stood still, whispering.
Even the crowd of horses felt the excite-
ment. The mares under the huge ash trees
forgot their appetite and arched their necks,
trying to look young. Stallions and geldings
had seen that morning a rival whose eyes
glistened with pride. Should he be toler-
ated? They spurned the earth under their
hoofs, whinnying challenges in all direc-
tions.
At last the final bell was heard, and the
congregation came out. Most of the men,
however, let their own horses alone for a
while, and the parsonage farmyard wai
crowded with people who wanted to sec
Peter Lo fetching Skobelef out from the
stable.
Then the owner arrived; all eyes centered
upon him where he was talking to the
sexton, who was like any other plain mortal
man, except that he had acquired some of
the same gestures that the parson used
when he was preaching.
People began to make room. The cautious
man pulled his buggy away from the mid-
dle of the yard. The women occupied the
bridge up to the barn. Better be careful —
though all were eager to see.
Peter Lo disappeared through the stable
door. Whinnying was heard from in there,
hoofs tramping, and bridle clanking, and a
moment afterwards a black head appeared
in the doorway. Skobelef lifted up his voice
in a ringing, fighting challenge for heaven
and earth to hear; Peter Lo was flung
skywards, alighting, however, a little
farther on.
Women screamed, and men withdrew
in such a hurry that several hats remained
behind them, for now Peter Lo and Sko-
belef began to dance round the yard.
Skobelef snorted" and foamed until his silky
black hide was flecked with white spots. He
did not agree about going toward that
buggy. He wanted to pay calls on his lady
friends. He pranced, reared, kicked and
backed, but a pair of shiny shoes kept pace
beside him all the time. It was a vision and
a revelation to the onlookers.
The yard by this time was swept free
of vehicles and people and it became a
dancing floor for Skobelef and Peter Lo.
The man yelled at his stallion and the
horse screamed at all the world in general
330 Johan
and at Peter Lo in particular — and they
kept on dancing. At last Skobelef seemed
determined to call on the parson's wife in-
doors, but Peter Lo's shining feet were on
the spot before him and the animal merely
succeeded in knocking down the railings
of the porch steps. Peter Lo's face was red
as red and Skobelef 's entire body was a mass
of foam. The women continually gave vent
to short tremulous utterances — oh!
Finally the horse had to stand between
the shafts of the buggy, but he reared when
the reins were loosened. The whip de-
scended, however, and he tried to dance
on the same spot, lifting all four legs,
arching his neck, and snorting out of ex-
tended nostrils.
Then Peter Lo's wife appeared, gathering
her shawl and her skirts, and calmly took
her seat in the buggy behind that hurricane
of a horse. Now Peter Lo was the con-
queror; he placed his hand on the seat and
swung up behind his wife.
We saw a rear and wild-gleaming eyes,
heard the crack of a whip, and in a mo-
ment there was but a cloud of dust which
disappeared behind the nearest buildings.
We were left behind, and those who had
horses felt ashamed. What was there to see
after this.f*
Bojer
merrily, laughing toward heaven and across
earth, and even their thoughts began mov-
ing in a more daring light.
Every Sunday morning the sight of Sko-
belef and Peter Lo was a manifestation of
a hitherto unknown force in life. We were
face to face with the joy of being alive,
realizing the sanctity of the body and read-
ing the joyous song of power in muscles
rippling under silky skin. To more than
one the two revealed for the first time that
life is not only sin and sorrow. Even the
days of this life have their glory.
Peter Lo, little by little, soared upwards
from his former level. He began to read
books, to wear a white collar and use a
pocket handkerchief at church. His speech
grew as careful as that of the lensmand.
Knowing himself and Skobelef to be the
center of general observation, he developed
a new sense of responsibility and a desire to
become a worthy model for the many.
True enough, we youngsters were not the
only ones who included a fresh petition in
our evening prayers: "O God, help me to
become like Peter Lo when I grow up."
Even the grown-ups imitated him. "You
brush your shoes as carefully as Peter Lo,"
they would say to each other, and, "You
wear a white collar like Peter Lo does."
From that day Skobelef was a power m
our valley. Peter Lo and Skobelef together
united into a kind of higher being to be
stared at by common people as they flashed
by. The two excited the whole community
into a quicker pace. A new sense of honor
toward horses arose, which caused every
owner to mind his beast with greater care
until it showed up, sleek and well-groomed.
Everybody began driving faster on the
high-road; men also began talking more
Skobelefs mission was originally to
provide the district with a new race of
horses, but he grew to be a spiritual power,
an educational influence for the whole
valley.
Peter Lo, however, was worse off. He was
no longer happy except in Skobelefs com-
pany. He lost all inclination for farm work.
He loved to flash through the district with
his friend or to provide a silent sermon out-
side the church with him.
Skpbelef Was a Horse
331
People said that Peter Lo slept in the
stable. They also said that the horse and
the man were growing more and more to
resemble each other. Skobclef developed
an oblique smile for his lady friends, and
Peter Lo's laughter sounded like whinnying
when he met his acquaintances at church.
Peter Lo's life was not very easy, after all.
He was so very fond of everything beauti-
ful, even though it did not belong to him.
And when his pranks grew too outrageous
he was very helpless, indeed. Then he went
to church and partook of Holy Com-
munion.
Many a time we watched him coming
to church, not driving his fierce stallion but
with a staid elderly mare in front of his
buggy. His sour-faced wife within her
shawls was perched up in the vehicle. On
one side walked the deacon, and on the
other Peter Lo, head bent low. It was an
act of public repentance which made many
people laugh. "Peter's done some fool thing
again," they would say.
A few days afterwards, however, he
would flash past us with Skobelef, so
freshly eager for the joy of life and the joy
of beauty that he was soon worse than ever.
His wife wanted Skobelef to be sent away,
and insisted that Peter would never be con-
verted from his sins as long as he had the
horse for a friend.
On every farm in the valley, however,
there soon grew up prancing black colts and
fillies, and the buggy wheels began to roll
more quickly along all roads. A lusty
whinnying gladdened all minds. Men lifted
their heads and looked about them merrily;
women dared to laugh aloud, and young
people once more started dancing.
Skobelef, however, did not live long. He
broke loose from his stable one fine night,
and made for the mountain moors where
he believed his beloved lady friends were
enjoying freedom and fresh air.
When Peter Lo found the stable empty
in the morning he began crying out, and
wailing as if he foresaw a tragedy. He
understood well enough where his dear
friend had gone, and people maintained
afterward that he was running about among
the hills whinnying like Skobelef, calling
and coaxing his faithless friend.
At last he found him. Skobelef had sunk
up to his neck in a treacherous bog, and
in his efforts to haul himself out of it one
leg had broken; the splinters of the bone
stuck out, and his eyes were bleeding from
fly-bites.
Peter wiped those poor eyes with soft
grass, then gave his dear friend a raw egg
with brandy. He wept for a while, and
then at last he had to use his knife.
From that day Peter Lo drove slowly
along the roads. His head dropped and his
beard turned gray.
Today he is an old man, but he still
dresses better than most of his neighbors
and talks town language as he used to do
before. When people speak to him of Sko-
belef his eyes grow dim.
"Skobelef!" he exclaims. "He was far
more than a horse. He was a liberal educa-
tion for every one of us."
WTLBUR DANIEL STEELE (1886- )
Blue Murder
from THE MAN WHO SAW THROUGH HEAVEN
AND OTHER STORIES
A well-written murder story is rare, and a well-written murder story
about a horse is practically nonexistent, with the exception of the fine
tale which follows. Here is fine local color, strong character portrayal f.
and a surprise ending that is yet logical if one goes bac\ and studies
the actors in the scenes.
t Mill Crossing it was already past
sunset. The rays, redder for what
autumn leaves were left, still
laid fire along the woods crowning the
stony slopes of Jim Bluedge's pastures; but
then the line of the dusk began and from
that level it filled the valley, washing with
transparent blue the buildings scattered
about the bridge, Jim's house and horse
sheds and hay barns, Frank's store, and
Camden's blacksmith shop.
The mill had been gone fifty years, but
the falls which had turned its wheel still
poured in the bottom of the valley, and
when the wind came from the Footstool
way their mist wet the smithy, built of the
old stone on the old foundations, and
their pouring drowned the clink of Cam-
den's hammer.
Just now they couldn't drown Camden's
hammer, for he wasn't in the smithy; he
was at his brother's farm. Standing inside
the smaller of the horse paddocks behind the
sheds he drove in stakes, one after another,
cut green from saplings, and so disposed
as to cover the more glaring of the weak-
nesses in the five foot fence. From time
to time, when one was done and another to
do, he rested the head of his sledge in the
pocket of his leather apron (he was never
without it; it was as though it had grown
on him, lumpy with odds and ends of his
trade — bolts and nails and rusty pliers and
old horseshoes) and, standing so, he mop-,
ped the sweat from his face and looked
up at the mountain.
Of the three brothers he was the dumb
one. He seldom had anything to say. It
was providential (folks said) that of the
three enterprises at the Crossing one was
a smithy; for while he was a strong, big,
hungry-muscled fellow, he never would
have had the shrewdness to run the store
or the farm. He was better at pounding —
332
Blue
pounding while the fire reddened and the
sparks flew, and thinking, and letting other
people wonder what he was thinking of.
Blossom Bluedge, his brother's wife, sat
perched on the top bar of the paddock
gate, holding her skirts around her ankles
with a trifle too much care to be quite un-
conscious, and watched him work. When
he looked at the mountain he was looking
at the mares, half a mile up the slope,
grazing in a Hne as straight as soldiers, their
heads all one way. But Blossom thought it
was the receding light he was thinking of,
and her own sense of misgiving returned
and deepened.
"You'd have thought Jim would be home
before this, wouldn't you, Cam?"
Her brother-in-law said nothing.
"Cam, look at me!"
It was nervousness, but it wasn't all
nervousness — she was the prettiest girl in
the valley; a small part of it was mingled
coquetry and pique.
The smith began to drive another stake,
swinging the hammer from high overhead,
his muscles playing in fine big rhythmical
convulsions under the skin of his arms and
chest, covered with short blond down.
Studying him cornerwise. Blossom mut-
tered, "Well, dont look at me, then!"
He was too dumb for any use. He was as
dumb as this : when all three of the Bluedge
boys were after her a year ago, Frank, the
storekeeper, had brought her candy: choco-
lates wrapped in silver foil in a two-pound
Boston box. Jim had laid before her the
Bluedge farm and with it the dominance of
the valley. And Camden! To the daughter
of Ed Beck, the apple grower, Camden
brought a box of apples! — and been be-
wildered too, when, for all she could help
it, she had had to clap a hand over her
Murder 333
mouth and run into tiie house to have her
A little more than just bewildered, per-
haps. Had she, or any of them, ever
speculated about that?... He had been
dumb enough before; but that was when
he started being as dumb as he was now.
Well, if he wanted to be dumb let him
be dumb. Pouting her pretty lips and arch-
ing her fine brows, she forgot the un-
imaginative fellow and turned to the ridge
again. And now, seeing the sun was quite
gone, all the day's vague worries and dreads
— held off by this and that — could not be
held off longer. For weeks there had been
so much talk, so much gossip and specula-
tion and doubt.
"Camden," she reverted suddenly. "Tell
me one thing; did you hear — "
She stopped there. Some people were
coming into the kitchen yard, dark forms
in the growing darkness. Most of them
lingered at the porch, sitting on the steps
and lighting their pipes. The one that came
out was Frank, the second of her brothers-
in-law. She was glad. Frank wasn't like
Camden; he would talk. Turning and
taking care of her skirts, she gave him a
bright and sisterly smile.
"Well, Frankie, what's the crowd?"
Far from avoiding the smile, as Camden's
habit was, the storekeeper returned it with a
brotherly wink for good measure. "Oh,
they're tired of waiting down the road, so
they come up here to see the grand arrival."
He was something of a man of the world;
in his calling he acquired a fine turn for
skepticism. "Don't want to miss being on
hand to see what flaws they can pick in
'Jim's five hundred dollar's worth of
experiment.' "
"Frank, ain't you the least bit worried
over Jim? So Late?"
334
"Don't see why."
*'A11 the same, I wish either you or Cam
couldVe gone with him."
* 'Don't see why. Had all the men from
Perry's stable there in Twinshead to help
him get the animal off the freight, and he
took an extra rope and tlie log-chain and
tlie heavy wagon, so I guess no matter how
wild and woolly the devil is he'll scarcely be
climbing over the tailboard. Besides, them
Western horses ain't such a big breed; even
a stallion."
"All the same — (look the other way,
Frankie)." Flipping her ankles over the
rail, Blossom jumped down beside him.
"Listen, Frank, tell me something; did you
hear — did you hear the reason Jim's getting
him cheap was because he killed a man out
West there, what's-its-name, Wyoming .f^"
Frank was taking off his sleeve protectors,
the pins in his mouth. It was Camden, at
the bars, speaking in his sudden deep rough
way, "who the hell told you that?"
Frank got the pins out of his mouth. "I
guess what it is, Blossie, what's mixed you
up is his having that name 'Blue Murder.' "
"No sir ! I got some sense and some ears.
You don't go fooling me."
Frank laughed indulgently and struck
her shoulder with a light hand.
"Don't worry. Between two horsemen
like Jim and Cam — "
"Don't Cam me! He's none of my horse.
I told Jim once — " Breaking off, Camden
hoisted his weight over the fence and stood
outside, his feet spread and his hammer in
both hands, an attitude that would have
looked a little ludicrous had anyone been
watching him.
Jim had arrived. With a clatter of hoofs
and a rattle of wheels he was in the yard
and come to a standstill, calling aloud as
Wilbtcr Daniel Steele
he threw the lines over the team, "Well,
friends, here we are."
The curious began to edge around,
closing a cautious circle. The dusk had
deepened so that it was hard to make any-
thing at any distance of Jim's "experiment"
but a blurry silhouette anchored at the
wagon's tail. The farmer put an end to it,
crying from his eminence, "Now, now,
clear out and don't worry him; give him
some peace tonight, for Lord's sake! Git!"
He jumped to the ground and began to
whack his arms, chilled with driving, only
to have them pinioned by Blossom's without
warning.
"Oh, Jim, I'm so glad you come. I been
so worried; gi' me a kiss!"
The farmer reddened, eyeing the cloud
of witnesses. He felt awkward and wished
she could have waited. "Get along, didn't I
tell you fellows?" he cried with a trace of
the Bluedge temper. "Go and wait in the
kitchen then; I'll tell you all about every-
thing soon's I come in. . . . Well now —
wife—"
"What's the matter?" she laughed, an
eye over her shoulder. "Nobody's looking
that matters. I'm sure Frank don't mind.
And as for Camden — "
Camden wasn't looking at them. Still
standing with his hammer two-fisted and
his legs spread, his chin down and his
thoughts to himself (the dumb head) he
was looking at Blue Murder, staring at that
other dumb head, which, raised high on the
motionless column of the stallion's neck,
seemed hearkening with an exile's doubt
to the sounds of this new universe, testing
with wide nostrils the taint in the wind of
equine strangers, and studying with eyes
accustomed to far horizons these dark pas-
tures that went up in the air.
Whatever the smith's cogitations, pres-
Blue
ently he let the hammer down and said
aloud, "So you're him, eh?"
Jim put Blossom aside, saying, "Got
supper ready? I'm hungry!" Excited by the
act of kissing and the sense of witnesses to
it, she fussed her hair and started kitchen-
wards as he turned to his brothers.
"Well, what do you make of him?"
"Five hundred dollars," said Frank.
"However, it's your money."
Camden was shorter. "Better put him in."
"All right; let them bars down while
I and Frank lead him around."
"No thanks!" the storekeeper kept his
hands in his pockets. "I just cleaned up,
thanks. Cam's the boy for horses."
"He's none o' my horse!" Camden wet
his lips, shook his shoulders, and scowled.
"Be damned, no!" He never had the right
words, and it made him mad. Hadn't he
told Jim from the beginning that he washed
his hands of this fool Agricultural College
squandering, "and a man-killer to the
bargain?"
"Unless," Frank put in slyly, "unless
Cam's scared."
"Oh, is Cam scared?"
"Scared?" And still to the brothers' en-
during wonder, the big dense fellow would
rise to that boyhood bait. "Scared ? The hell
I'm scared of any horse ever wore a shoe!
Come on, I'll show you! I'll show you!"
"Well, be gentle with him, boys, he may
be brittle." As Frank sauntered off around
the shed he whistled the latest tune.
In the warmth and light of the kitchen
he began to fool with his pretty sister-in-
law, feigning princely impatience and
growling with a wink at the assembled
neighbors, "When do we eat?"
But she protested, "Land, I had every-
thing ready since five, ain't I? And now
Murder 335
if it ain't you it's them to wait for. I de-
clare for men!"
At last one of the gossips got in a word.
"What you make of Jim's purchase,
Frank?"
"Well, it's Jim's money, Darrcd. If / \\rA
the running of this farm — " Frank began
drawing up chairs noisily, leaving it at that.
Darred persisted. "Don't look to mc
much like an animal for women and chil-
dren to handle, not yet awhile."
"Cowboys han'les 'em, pa." That was
Darred's ten-year-old, big-eyed.
Blossom put the kettle back, protesting,
"Leave off, or you'll get me worried to
death; all your talk... I declare, where
are those bad boys?" opening the door she
called into the dark, "Jim! Cam! Land's
sake!"
Subdued by distance and the intervening
sheds, she could hear them at their business
— sounds muffled and fragmentary, soft
thunder of hoofs, snorts, puffings, and the
short words of men in action: "Aw, leave
him be in the paddock tonight." . . . "With
them mares there, you damn fool?''...
"Damn fool, eh ? Try getting him in at that
door and see who's the damn fool!"...
"Come on, don't be so scared" . . . "Scared,
eh? Scared?"...
Why was it she always felt that curious
tightening of all her powers of attention
when Camden Bluedge spoke? Probably
because he spoke so rarely, and then so
roughly, as if his own thickness made him
mad. Never mind.
"Last call for supper in the dining-car,
boys!" she called and closed the door. Turn-
ing back to the stove she was about to
replace the tea water for the third time,
when, straightening up, she said, "What's
that?"
336
No one else had heard anything. They
looked at one another.
"Frank, go — go see what — go tell the boys
come in."
Frank hesitated, feeling foolish, then
went to the door.
Then everyone in the room was out of his
chair.
There were three sounds. The first was
human and incoherent. The second was in-
coherent too, but it wasn't human. The
third was a crash, a ripping and splintering
of wood.
When they got to the paddock they found
Camden crawling from beneath the wreck-
age of the fence where a gap was opened
on the pasture side. He must have received
a blow on the head, for he seemed dazed.
He didn't seem to know they were there.
At a precarious balance — one hand at the
back of his neck — he stood facing up the
hill, gaping after the diminuendo of
floundering hoofs, invisible above.
So seconds passed. Again the beast gave
tongue, a high wild horning note, and on
the black of the stony hill to the right of
it a faint shower of sparks blew like fire-
flies where the herding mares wheeled. It
seemed to waken the dazed smith. He
opened his mouth ''Almighty GodT Swing-
ing, he flung his arms towards the shed.
''There! There!"
At last someone brought a lantern. They
found Jim Bluedge lying on his back in
the corner of the paddock near the door to
the shed. In the lantern light, and still
better in the kitchen when they had carried
him in, they read the record of the thing
which Camden, dunib in good earnest now,
seemed unable to tell them with anything
but his strange unfocused stare.
The bloody offense to the skull would
have been enough to kill the man, but it
Wilbur Daniel Steele
was the second, full on the chest above the
heart, that told the tale. On the caved grat-
ing of the ribs, already turning blue under
the yellowish down, the iron shoe had left
its mark; and when, laying back the rag of
shirt, they saw that the toe of the shoe
was upward and the cutting calkends down
they knew all they wanted to know of that
swift, black, crushing episode.
No outlash of heels in fright. Here was
a forefoot. An attack aimed and frontal ; an
onslaught reared, erect; beast turned biped;
red eyes mad to white eyes aghast . . . And
only afterward, when it was done, the
blood-fright that serves the horse for con-
science; the blind rush across the inclosure;
the fence gone down. . . .
No one had much to say. No one seemed
to know what to do.
As for Camden, he was no help. He
simply stood propped on top of his logs of
legs where someone had left him. From
the instant when with his "Almighty God!'*
he had been brought back to memory, in-
stead of easing its hold as the minutes
passed, the event to which he remained the
only living human witness seemed minute
by minute to tighten its grip. It set its sweat-
beaded stamp on his face, distorted his eyes,
and tied his tongue. He was no good to
anyone.
As for Blossom, even now — ^perhaps more
than ever now — her dependence on physi-
cal touch was the thing that ruled her.
Down on her knees beside the lamp they
had set on the floor, she plucked at one
of the dead man's shoes monotonously, and
as it were idly, swaying the toe like an in-
verted pendulum from side to side. That
was all. Not a word. And when Frank, the
only one of the three with any sense, got
her up finally and led her away to her
room, she clung to him.
Blue Murder
It was lucky that Frank was a man of
affairs. His brother was dead, and fright-
fully dead, but there was tomorrow for
grief. Just now there were many things to
do. There were people to be gotten rid of.
With short words and angry gestures he
cleared them out, all but Darred and a
man named White, and to these he said,
"Now first thing, Jim can't stay here." He
ran and got a blanket from a closet. "Give
me a hand and we'll lay him in the ice
house overnight. Don't sound so good, but
it's best, poor fellow. Cam, come along!"
He waited a moment, and as he studied
the wooden fool the blood poured back into
his face. "Wake up. Cam! You great big
scared stiff, you!"
Camden brought his eyes out of nothing-
ness and looked at his brother. A twinge
passed over his face, convulsing the mouth
muscles. "Scared?"
"Yes, you're scared!" Frank's lip lifted,
showing the tips of his teeth. "And I'll
warrant you something: if you wasn't the
scared stiff you was, this hellish damn thing
wouldn't have happened, maybe. Scared!
You a blacksmith! Scared of a horse!"
''HorseT Again that convulsion of the
mouth muscles, something between irony
and an idiot craft. "Why don't you go
catch 'im.?"
"Hush it! Don't waste time by going
loony now, for God's sake. Come!"
"My advice to anybody — " Camden
looked crazier than ever, knotting his
brows. "My advice to anybody is to let
somebody else go catch that — that — "
Opening the door he faced out into the
night, his head sunk between his shoulders
and the fingers working at the ends of his
hanging arms; and before they knew it he
began to swear. They could hardly hear
because his teeth were locked and his
337
breath soft. There were all the vile words
he had ever heard in his life, curses and
threats and abominations, vindictive, vio-
lent, obscene. He stopped only when at a
sharp word from Frank he was made
aware that Blossom had come back into
the room. Even then he didn't seem to com-
prehend her return but stood blinking at
her, and at the rifle she carried, with his
distraught bloodshot eyes.
Frank comprehended. Hysteria had fol-
lowed the girl's blankncss. Stepping be-
tween her and the body on the floor, he
spoke in a persuasive, unhurried way.
"What are you doing with that gun,
Blossie? Now, now, you don't want that
gun, you know you don't."
It worked. Her rigidity lessened appre-
ciably. Confusion gained.
"Well, but — oh, Frank — well, but when
we going to shoot him?"
"Yes, yes, Blossie — now, yes — only you
best give me that gun, that's the girlie."
When he had got the weapon he put an arm
around her shoulders. "Yes, yes, course
we're going to shoot him; what you think?
Don't want an animal like that running
round. Now first thing in the morning—"
Hysteria returned. With its strength she
resisted his leading.
"No, now! Nowr
"He's gone and killed Jim! Killed my
husband! I won't have him left alive an-
other minute! I won't! Now! No sir, I'm
going myself, I am! Frank, I am! Cam!"
At his name, appealed to in tliat queer
screeching way, the man in tlie doorway
shivered all over, wet his lips, and walked
out into the dark.
"There, you see?" Frank was quick to
capitalize anything. "Cam's gone to do it.
Cam's gone, Blossie! . . . Here, one of you—
^-8
Wilbur Daniel Steele
Darred, take this gun and run give it to
Camden, that's the boy."
"You sure he'll kill him, Frank? you
sure?"
"Sure as daylight. Now you come along
back to your room like a good girl and get
some rest. Come, I'll go with you."
When Frank returned to the kitchen ten
minutes later, Darred was back.
"Well, now, let's get at it and carry out
poor Jim; he can't lay here Where's
Cam gone rioiv, damn him !"
"Cam ? Why, he's gone and went."
"Went where.?"
"Up the pasture, like you said."
"Like I " Frank went an odd color.
He walked to the door. Between the light
on the sill and the beginnings of the stars
where the woods crowned the mountain
was all one blackness. One stillness too.
He turned on Darred. "But look, you never
gave him that gun, even."
"He didn't want it."
"Lord's sake; what did he say?"
"Said nothing. He'd got the log-chain
out of the wagon and when I caught him
he was up hunting his hammer in under
that wreck at the fence. Once he found it
he started off up. 'Cam,' says I, 'here's a
gun, want it ?' He seem not to. Just went on
walking up."
"How'd he look?"
"Look same's you seen him looking.
Sick."
"The damned fool!" . . .
Poor dead Jim! Poor fool Camden! As
the storekeeper went about his business, and
afterward when, the ice house door closed
on its tragic tenant and White and Darred
gone off home, he roamed the yard, driven
here and there, soft-footed, waiting, heark-
ening — his mind was for a time not on
his own property but the plaything of
thoughts diverse and wayward. Jim his
brother, so suddenly and so violently gone.
The stallion. That beast that had kicked
him to death. With anger and hate and
pitiless impatience of time he thought of
the morrow, when they would catch him
and take their revenge with guns and clubs.
Behind these speculations, covering the
background of his consciousness and string-
ing his nerves to endless vigil, spread the
wall of the mountain: silent from instant
to instant but devising under its black
silence (who-could-know-what instant to
come) a neigh, a yell, a spark-line of iron
hoofs on rolling flints, a groan. And still
behind that and deeper into the borders of
the unconscious, the storekeeper thought of
the farm that had lost its master, the rich
bottoms, the broad, well-stocked pastures,
the fat barns, and the comfortable house
whose chimneys and gable ends fell into
changing shapes of perspective against the
stars as he wandered here and there....
Jim gone. ...And Camden, at any mo-
ment . . .
His face grew hot. An impulse carried
him a dozen steps. "I ought to go up. Ought
to take the gun and go up." But there
shrewd sanity put on the brakes. "Where's
the use? Couldn't find him in this dark.
Besides I oughtn't to leave Blossom here
alone."
With that he went around toward the
kitchen, thinking to go in. But the sight
of the lantern, left burning out near the
sheds, sent his ideas off on another course.
At any rate it would give his muscles and
nerves something to work on. Taking the
lantern and entering the paddock, he fell
to patching the gap into the pasture, using
broken boards from the wreck. As he
worked his eyes chanced to fall on foot-
prints in the dung-mixed earth — Camden's
Blue Murder
footprints, leading away beyond the little
ring of light. And beside them, taking off
from the landing-place of that prodigious
leap, he discerned the trail of the stallion.
After a moment he got down on his knees
where the earth was softest, holding the
lantern so that its light fell full.
He gave over his fence building. Return-
ing to the house his gait was no longer
that of the roamer; his face, caught by the
periodic flare of the swinging lantern, was
the face of another man. In its expression
there was a kind of fright and a kind of
calculating eagerness. He looked at the
clock on the kitchen shelf, shook it, and
read it again. He went to the telephone and
fumbled at the receiver. He waited till his
hand quit shaking, then removed it from
the hook.
"Listen, Darred,'* he said, when he had
got the farmer at last, "get White and what-
ever others you can and come over first
thing it's light. Come a-riding and bring
your guns. No, Cam ain't back."
He heard Blossom calling. Outside her
door he passed one hand down over his
face, as he might have passed a wash rag
to wipe off what was there. Then he went
in.
"What's the matter, Blossie? Can't
sleep.?"
"No, I can't sleep. Can't think. Can't
sleep. Oh, Frankie!"
He sat down beside the bed.
"Oh, Frankie, Frankie, hold my handT
She looked almost homely, her face
bleached out and her hair in a mess on the
pillow. But she would get over that. And
the short sleeve of the nightgown on the
arm he held was edged with pretty lace.
"Got your watch here?" he asked. She
gave it to him from under the pillow. This
SM
too he shook as if he couldn't believe it wa5
going.
Pretty Blossom Beck. Here for a wonder
he sat in her bcdrrxjm and held her hand.
One brother was dead and the other was on
the mountain.
But little by litde, as he sat and dreamed
so, nightmare crept over his brain. He had
to arouse and shake himself. He had to set
his thoughts resolutely in other roads
Perhaps there would be even the smithy.
The smithy, the store, the farm. Complete.
The farm, the farmhouse, the room in the
farmhouse, the bed in the room, the wife in
the bed. Complete beyond belief. If
Worth dodging horror for. If . . .
"Frank, has Cam come back V*
"Cam } Don't worry about Cam . . .
Where's that watch again } . . ."
Far from rounding up their quarry in the
early hours after dawn, it took the riders,
five of them, till almost noon simply to
make certain that he wasn't to be found —
not in any of the pastures. Then when they
discovered the hole in the fence far up in
the woods beyond the crest where Blue
Murder had led the mares in a break for
the open country of hills and ravines to die
south, they were only beginning.
The farmers had left their w-ork undone
at home and, as the afternoon lengthened
and with it the shadows in the hollow
places, they began to eye one another be-
hind their leader's back. Yet they couldn't
say it; there was something in the store-
keeper's air today, something zealous and
pitiless and fanatical, that shut them up
and pulled them plodding on.
Frank did the trailing. Hopeless of get-
ting anywhere before sundown in that un-
kempt widerness of a hundred square
miles of scrub, his companions slouched in
340 Wilbur Daniel Steele
their saddles and rode more and more
mechanically, knee to knee, and it was he
who made the casts to recover the lost
trail and, dismounting to read the dust,
cried back, "He's still with 'em," and with
gestures of imperious excitement beckoned
them on.
"Which you mean?" Darred asked him
once. "Cam or the horse .f^'*
Frank wheeled his beast and spurred back
at the speaker. It was extraordinary. "You
don't know what you're talking about!"
he cried, with a causelessness and a dis-
ordered vehemence that set them first star-
ing, then speculating. "Come on, you
dumb heads; don't talk — rider
By the following day, when it was being
told in all the farmhouses, the story might
vary in details and more and more as the
tellings multiplied, but in its fundamentals
it remained the same. In one thing they
certainly all agreed : they used the same ex-
pression — "It was like Frank was drove.
Drove in a race against something, and not
sparing the whip."
They were a good six miles to the south
of the fence. Already the road back home
would have to be followed three parts in
the dark.
Darred was the spokesman. "Frank, I'm
going to call it a day."
The others reined up with him but the
man ahead rode on. He didn't seem to
hear. Darred lifted his voice, "Come on,
call it a day, Frank. Tomorrow, maybe.
But you see we've run it out and they're not
here."
"Wait," said Frank over his shoulder,
still riding on into the pocket.
White's mount, a mare, laid back her
ears, shied, and stood trembling. After a
moment she whinnied.
It was as if she had whinnied for a
dozen. A crashing in the woods above them
to the left and the avalanche came — down
streaming, erupting, wheeling, wheeling
away with volleying snorts, a dark rout.
Darred, reining his horse, began to
shout, "Here they go this way, Frank!" But
Frank was yelling, "Up here, boys! This
way, quick!"
It was the same note, excited, feverish,
disordered, breaking like a child's. When
they neared him they saw he was off his
horse, rifle in hand, and down on his knees
to study the ground where the woods began.
By the time they reached his animal the
impetuous fellow had started up into the
cover, his voice trailing, "Come on; spread
out and come on!"
One of the farmers got down. When he
saw the other three keeping their saddles
he swung up again.
White spoke this time. "Be darned if I
do!" He lifted a protesting hail. "Come
back here, Frank! You're crazy! It's getting
dark!"
It was Frank's own fault. They told him
plainly to come back and he wouldn't
listen.
For a while they could hear his crackle
in the mounting underbrush. Then that
stopped, whether he had gone too far
for their ears or whether he had come to a
halt to give his own ears a chance. . . . Once,
off to the right, a little higher up under
the low ceiling of the trees that darkened
moment by moment with the rush of night,
they heard another movement, another
restlessness of leaves and stones. Then that
was still, and everything was still.
Darred ran a sleeve over his face and
swung down. "God alive, boys!"
It was the silence. All agreed there — ^the
silence and the deepening dusk.
The first they heard was the shot. No
Blue Murder
voice. Just the one report. Then after five
breaths of another silence a crashing of
growth, a charge in the darkness under
the withered scrub, continuous and dimin-
ishing.
They shouted "Frank!" No answer. They
called, "¥ran\ Blued gel' '
Now, since they had to, they did. Keep-
ing contact by word, and guided partly by
directional memory (and mostly in the end
by luck), after a time they found the store-
keeper in a brake of ferns, lying across his
gun.
They got him down to the open, watch-
ing behind them all the while. Only then,
by the flares of successive matches, under
the noses of the snorting horses, did they
look for the damage done.
They remembered the stillness and the
gloom; it must have been quite black in
there. The attack had come from behind —
equine and pantherine at once, and planned
and cunning. A deliberate lunge with a
forefoot again: the shoe which had crushed
the backbone between the shoulder blades
was a fore shoe; that much they saw by the
match flares in the red wreck.
They took no longer getting home than
they had to, but it was longer than they
wished. With Frank across his own saddle,
walking their horses and with one or an-
other ahead to pick the road (it was going
to rain, and even the stars were lost), they
made no more than a creeping speed.
None of them had much to say on the
journey. Finding the break in the boundary
fence and feeling through the last of the
woods, the lights of their farms began to
show in the pool of blackness below, and
Darred uttered a part of what had lain
in their minds during the return.
"Well, that leaves Cam."
None followed it up. None cared to go
W
any closer than he was to the real question.
Something new, alien, menacing and pitiless
had come into the valley of their lives with
that beast they had never really seen; they
felt its oppression, every one, and kept the
real question back in their minds: "Doa it
leave Cam?"
It answered itself. Camden was at home
when they got there.
He had come in a little before them,
empty-handed. Empty-headed torj. When
Blossom, who had waited all day, part of the
time with neighbor women who had come
in and part of the time alone to the point
of going mad — when she saw him coming
down the pasture, his feet stumbling and
his shoulders dejected, her first feeling was
relief. Her first words, however were, "Did
you get him, Cam.^" And all he would an-
swer was, "Gi' me something to eat, can't
you } Qf\ me a few hours' sleep, can't you }
Then wait!"
He looked as if he would need more
than a few hours' sleep. Propped on his
elbows over his plate, it seemed as though
his eyes would close before his mouth would
open.
His skin was scored by thorns and his
shirt was in ribbons under tlie straps of his
iron-sagged apron; but it was not by these
marks that his twenty-odd hours showed:
it was by his face. While yet his eyes were
open and his wits still half awake, his face
surrendered. The flesh relaxed into lines
of stupor, a putty-formed, putty-colored
mask of sleep.
Once he let himself be aroused. This was
when, to an abstracted query as to Frank's
whereabouts, Blossom told him Frank had
been out with four others since dawn. He
heaved clear of the table and opened his
eyes at her, showing the red around the
rims.
342
He spoke with the tliick tongue of the
drunkard. "If anybody but me lays hand
on that stalHon I'll kill him. I'll wring his
neck."
Then he relapsed into his stupidity, and
not even the arrival of the party bringing
his brother's body home seemed able to
shake him so far clear of it again.
At £rst, when they had laid Frank on the
floor where on the night before they had
laid Jim, he seemed hardly to comprehend.
*'What's wrong witli Frank .f^"
*'Some more of Jim's ^experiment.' "
*Trank see him? He's scared, Frank is.
Look at his face there."
"He's dead, Cam."
*'Dead, you say? Frank dead? Dead of
fright; is that it?"
Even when, rolling the body over they
showed him what was what, he appeared
incapable of comprehension, of amazement,
of passion, or of any added grief. He looked
at them all with a kind of befuddled protest.
Returning to chair and his plate, he grum-
bled, "Le' me eat first, can't you? Can't
you gi' me a little time to sleep?"
"Well, you wouldn't do much tonight
anyway, I guess."
At White's words Blossom opened her
mouth for the first time.
"No, nothing tonight, Cam. Cam! Cam-
den! Say! Promise!"
"And then tomorrow, Cam, what we'll
do is to get every last man in the valley, and
we'll go at this right. We'll lay hand on
that devil — "
Camden swallowed his mouthful of cold
steak with difficulty. His obession touched,
he showed them the rims of his eyes again.
"You do and I'll wring your necks. The
man that touches that animal before I do
gets his n 
Open Library