Horses Nine | Page 6

somewhat, but aside from that his pose was strictly according to the
regulations.
Skipper had been playing at standing post for a half-hour, when a
trotting dandy who sported ankle-boots and toe-weights, pulled up
before him. He was drawing a light, bicycle-wheeled road-wagon in
which were two men.
"Queer?" one of the men was saying. "Can't say I see anything queer
about it, Captain. Some old plug that's got away from a squatter; that's
all I see in it."

"Well, let's have a look," said the other. He stared hard at Skipper for a
moment and then, in a loud, sharp tone, said:
"'Ten-shun! Right dress!"
Skipper pricked up his ears, raised his head, and side-stepped stiffly.
The trotting dandy turned and looked curiously at him.
"Forward!" said the man in the wagon. Skipper hobbled out into the
road.
"Right wheel! Halt! I thought so," said the man, as Skipper obeyed the
orders. "That fellow has been on the force. He was standing post.
Looks mighty familiar, too--white stockings on two forelegs, white star
on forehead. Now I wonder if that can be--here, hold the reins a
minute."
Going up to Skipper the man patted his nose once or twice, and then
pushed his muzzle to one side. Skipper ducked and countered. He had
not forgotten his boxing trick. The man turned his back and began to
pace down the road. Skipper followed and picked up a riding-glove
which the man dropped.
"Doyle," said the man, as he walked back to the wagon, "two years ago
that was the finest horse on the force--took the blue ribbon at the
Garden. Alderman Martin would give $1,000 for him as he stands. He
has hunted the State for him. You remember Martin--Reddy
Martin--who used to be on the mounted squad! Didn't you hear? An old
uncle who made a fortune as a building contractor died about a year
ago and left the whole pile to Reddy. He's got a fine country place up in
Westchester and is in the city government. Just elected this fall. But he
isn't happy because he can't find his old horse--and here's the horse."
Next day an astonished junkman stood before an empty shanty which
served as a stable and feasted his eyes on a fifty-dollar bank-note.
* * * * *

If you are ever up in Westchester County be sure to visit the stables of
Alderman P. Sarsfield Martin. Ask to see that oak-panelled box-stall
with the stained-glass windows and the porcelain feed-box. You will
notice a polished brass name-plate on the door bearing this inscription:
SKIPPER.
You may meet the Alderman himself, wearing an English-made
riding-suit, loping comfortably along on a sleek bay gelding with two
white forelegs and a white star on his forehead. Yes, high-priced
veterinaries can cure spavin--Alderman Martin says so.

CALICO
WHO TRAVELLED WITH A ROUND TOP
Something there was about Calico's markings which stuck in one's
mind, as does a haunting memory, intangible but unforgotten. Surely
the pattern was obtrusive enough to halt attention; yet its vagaries were
so unexpected, so surprising that, even as you looked, you might
hesitate at declaring whether it was his withers or his flanks which were
carrot-red and if he had four white stockings or only three. It was safer
simply to say that he was white where he was not red and red where he
was not white. Moreover, his was a vivid coat.
Altogether Calico was a horse to be remarked and to be remembered.
Yet--and again yet--Calico was not wholly to blame for his many faults.
Farm breeding, which was more or less responsible for his bizarre
appearance, should also bear the burden of his failings. As a colt he had
been the marvel of the county, from Orono to Hermon Centre. He had
been petted, teased, humored, exhibited, coddled, fooled
with--everything save properly trained and broken.
So he grew up a trace shirker and a halter-puller, with disposition,
temperament, and general behavior as uneven as his coloring.
"The most good-fer-nothin' animal I ever wasted grain on!" declared

Uncle Enoch.
For the better part of four unproductive years had the life of Calico run
to commonplaces. Then, early one June morning, came an hour big
with events. Being the nigh horse in Uncle Enoch's pair, Calico caught
first glimpse of the weird procession which met them as they turned
into the Bangor road at Sherburne's Corners.
Now it was Calico's habit to be on the watch for unusual sights, and
when he saw them to stick his ears forward, throw his head up, snort
nervously and crowd against the pole. Generally he got one leg over a
trace. There was a white bowlder at the top of Poorhouse Hill which
Calico never passed without going through some of these manoeuvres.
"Hi-i-ish there!