Bred In The Bone | Page 4

that he now slunk away to this far-off corner. He remembered his old master, the king of the turf, the model of a fine gentleman, the leader of men; whose graciousness and princely hospitality were in all mouths; whose word was law; whose name no one mentioned but with respect.
He remembered his young master as he rode away to the war on one of the thoroughbreds, a matchless rider on a matchless horse. How could he now allow their grandson and son, in this rusty suit, with this rusty colt at which the stable-boys jeered, to match himself against the finest men and horses in the country? He must keep him from entering the horse.
But as the old fellow stopped before the stall and glanced at the horse he had been leading, his face changed. It took on the first look of interest it had worn since the horse had appeared on the road in a cloud of dust. He was standing now directly in front of him. His eyes opened. The deep chest, the straight, clean legs with muscles standing out on the forearms in big knots, the fine head with its broad, full brow, its wide eyes full of life and intelligence, the delicate muzzle, suddenly caught his eye. He took a step to one side, and scanned the horse from top to hoof, and his face lighted up. Another step, and he ran his hand over him, up and down, from topknot to fetlock, from crest to croup. At every touch his eyes opened wider.
"Umhm! He hard as a rock!" He was talking aloud, but to himself. "He 's got de barrel to stay, an' he leg jes as clean as a pin!"
It was the first word of praise he had vouchsafed. The young owner's face lighted up. He had felt the old man's disappointment, and his heart had been sinking. It was lifted now.
"What you say he pedigree?"
"Imported Learn----"
"I know. Dat 's de blood! Imported Leamington--Fanny Wash'n' by Revenue! He 'll do. Hit 's bred in de bone!"
"Did you ever see such bone?" the boy asked, running his hand over the big knee-joint.
The old trainer made no answer. He glanced furtively around to see that no one heard the question. Then he went on feeling the horse, inch by inch. Every muscle and sinew he ran his hand over, and each moment his face cleared up more and more. "He ain' nothin' but rock!" he said, straightening up. "Walk him off dyah, son"--with a wave of his hand--"walk him."
It was as if he were speaking to a stable-boy. He had now forgotten all but the horse, but the young man understood.
He took the bridle, but the horse did not wait. At the first step he was up with him, with a long, swinging stride as springy as if he were made of rubber, keeping his muzzle close to his master's shoulder, and never tightening his rein. Now and then he threw up his head and gazed far over beyond the whitewashed fence toward a horse galloping away off on the curving track, as if there were where his interest lay.
"Straight as a plank," muttered the old trainer, with a toss of his head. "'Minds me o' Planet. Got de quarters on him.--Bring him back!" he called.
As the young man returned, the older one asked, "Can he run?"
"Run! Want to see him move!"
Without waiting for an answer, he vaulted into the saddle and began to gather up the reins. The horse lifted his head and gathered himself together, but he did not move from his tracks.
"Wait. How far is you come to-day?" demanded Robin.
"About forty miles. I took it easy." He turned the horse's head.
The old man gave an exclamation, part oath, part entreaty, and grabbed for the reins just as the boy was turning toward the track, where a whitewashed board fence stood over four feet high.
"Wait--whar you gwine! Forty mile! Whar you gwine? Wait!"
"Over into the track. That fence is nothing."
He settled himself in the saddle, and the horse threw up his head and drew himself together. But old Robin was too quick for him. He clutched the rider by the leg with one hand at the same time that he seized the bridle with the other.
"Git off him; git off him!" Without letting go the bridle, he half lifted the boy from the saddle.
"That won't hurt him, Uncle Robin. He 's used to it. That fence is nothing."
"Gi' me dis hoss dis minute. Forty mile, an' 'spec' to run to-morrow! Gi' me dis hoss dis minute, boy."
The young owner yielded with a laugh, and the old trainer took possession of the horse, and led him on, stopping every now and then to run his hand over his sinewy neck and forelegs, and grumbling to