Horses Nine | Page 5

rather felt--for the only light
came through cracks in the walls--that there was no floor. His nostrils
told him that the drainage was bad. Skipper sighed as he thought of the
clean, sweet straw which Reddy used to change in his stall every night.
But when you have a lump on your leg--a lump that throbs, throbs,
throbs with pain, whether you stand still or lie down--you do not think
much on other things.
Supper was late in coming to Skipper that night. He was almost starved
when it was served. And such a supper! What do you think? Hay? Yes,

but marsh hay; the dry, tasteless stuff they use for bedding in cheap
stables. A ton of it wouldn't make a pound of good flesh. Oats? Not a
sign of an oat! But with the hay there were a few potato-peelings.
Skipper nosed them out and nibbled the marsh hay. The rest he pawed
back under him, for the whole had been thrown at his feet. Then he
dropped on the ill-smelling ground and went to sleep to dream that he
had been turned into a forty-acre field of clover, while a dozen brass
bands played a waltz and multitudes of people looked on and cheered.
In the morning more salt hay was thrown to him and water was brought
in a dirty pail. Then, without a stroke of brush or curry-comb he was
led out. When he saw the wagon to which he was to be hitched Skipper
hung his head. He had reached the bottom. It was unpainted and rickety
as to body and frame, the wheels were unmated and dished, while the
shafts were spliced and wound with wire.
But worst of all was the string of bells suspended from two uprights
above the seat. When Skipper saw these he knew he had fallen low
indeed. He had become the horse of a wandering junkman. The next
step in his career, as he well knew, would be the glue factory and the
boneyard. Now when a horse has lived for twenty years or so, it is sad
enough to face these things. But at eight years to see the glue factory
close at hand is enough to make a horse wish he had never been foaled.
For many weary months Skipper pulled that crazy cart, with its hateful
jangle of bells, about the city streets and suburban roads while the man
with the faded hair roared through his matted beard: "Buy o-o-o-o-olt
ra-a-a-a-ags! Buy o-o-o-o-olt ra-a-a-a-ags! Olt boddles! Olt copper! Olt
iron! Vaste baber!"
[Illustration: For many weary months Skipper pulled that crazy cart.]
The lump on Skipper's hock kept growing bigger and bigger. It seemed
as if the darts of pain shot from hoof to flank with every step. Big
hollows came over his eyes. You could see his ribs as plainly as the
hoops on a pork-barrel. Yet six days in the week he went on long trips
and brought back heavy loads of junk. On Sunday he hauled the
junkman and his family about the city.

Once the junkman tried to drive Skipper into one of the Park entrances.
Then for the first time in his life Skipper balked. The junkman pounded
and used such language as you might expect from a junkman, but all to
no use. Skipper took the beating with lowered head, but go through the
gate he would not. So the junkman gave it up, although he seemed very
anxious to join the line of gay carriages which were rolling in.
Soon after this there came a break in the daily routine. One morning
Skipper was not led out as usual. In fact, no one came near him, and he
could hear no voices in the nearby shanty. Skipper decided that he
would take a day off himself. By backing against the door he readily
pushed it open, for the staple was insecure.
Once at liberty, he climbed the roadway that led out of the lot. It was
late in the fall, but there was still short sweet winter grass to be found
along the gutters. For a while he nibbled at this hungrily. Then a queer
idea came to Skipper. Perhaps the passing of a smartly groomed
saddle-horse was responsible.
At any rate, Skipper left off nibbling grass. He hobbled out to the edge
of the road, turned so as to face the opposite side, and held up his head.
There he stood just as he used to stand when he was the pride of the
mounted squad. He was on post once more.
Few people were passing, and none seemed to notice him. Yet he was
an odd figure. His coat was shaggy and weather-stained. It looked
patched and faded. The spavined hock caused one hind quarter to sag