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THE ADVENTURES OF PONY DEXTER
BOOKS FOR GIRLS
By Laura E. Richards
_The_ MARGARET SERIES
[Illustration]
Three Margarets
Margaret Montfort
Peggy
Rita
Fernley House
_The_ HILDEGARDE SERIES
[Illustration]
Queen Hildegarde
Hildegarde’s Holiday
Hildegarde’s Home
Hildegarde’s Neighbors
Hildegarde’s Harvest
DANA ESTES & COMPANY
Publishers
Estes Press, Summer St., Boston
[Illustration: FOR A BRIEF SPACE WE SPED NECK TO NECK.]
THE ADVENTURES
OF PONY DEXTER
BY
HARRIET A. CHEEVER
AUTHOR OF
“THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF BILLY TRILL,”
“MADAME ANGORA,” “LORD DOLPHIN,”
“MOTHER BUNNY,” ETC.
Illustrated by
DIANTHA H. MARLOWE
[Illustration]
BOSTON
DANA ESTES & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1911_
BY DANA ESTES & COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
PONY DEXTER
Published June, 1911
_Electrotyped and Printed by
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A._
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
FOR A BRIEF SPACE WE SPED NECK TO NECK _Frontispiece_
WITH DEFT FINGERS HE UNFASTENED THE STOUT REIN 29
HE MADE A BOLD DASH—FLEW TO THE BACK OF A HORSE, ETC. 44
OH! HOW I LONGED FOR THE HOME FARM! 52
HE STOPPED ABRUPTLY AND LOOKED AT ME ATTENTIVELY 60
SUDDENLY CAME FACE TO FACE WITH THE MAN RONDO 76
THE ADVENTURES OF PONY DEXTER
CHAPTER I
Such a bright beautiful morning as it was when we set out for the pony
trot! Several well-grown boys in our neighbourhood owned ponies. There
was Marco Boo, owned by Will Barrows; Tony Swift, owned by Thomas Gray;
Go-It, the property of Hiram Wilks, and myself:—Pony Dexter, with
Perley Bolt for master. It was the four of us that were entered for the
morning’s run.
Now a pony has eyes with which to see, and ears with which to hear, and
it was no fault of mine that I heard grown lads, pretty young girls,
and even a number of men, praise what they called my “dandy appearance”
and extra fine “points.”
So, once I began to notice more particularly the various things said in
my hearing, it did not take me long to understand that my neck was long
and unusually well-arched for a pony, my head short, ears upright,
while there was a perfect curve from the top of the head to the middle
of the back. The body was rather slender in which “rich veins” showed:
the legs, with neither splints nor side bones of objectionable size,
were straight, with flexible muscles and delicate fetlocks, the hoofs
strong and high-heeled.
My dam, or mother, was a Welsh pony that had been brought to this
country, and probably both speed and endurance were traceable to this
lineage. For colour I was a light bay, with coal black mane and tail,
both long and full-haired.
I wish it could be said with truth that I loved my master. Horses large
and small, and ponies young or well grown are naturally affectionate
and if only kindly treated, are gentle, kind and willing.
But I once heard a man say that Perley Bolt, my young master, had
things too “soft” for his own good. I gradually found out that this
meant Perley had too much money to do what he pleased with, was
allowed to do pretty much as he chose, and had in consequence become a
self-willed, high-tempered young fellow.
I was reared on a large stock-farm, a place where a great many horses
and ponies were bred, trained and sold. It is not much fun being
trained or “broken” as they call it. In first attempting management
they allow a certain length of rein that a pony does not understand
the use of. Then, if he bolts, tries to run, shows temper or great
resistance, first thing he knows, by some trick of raising a strap
that has been attached just above the hoofs, he is tripped up, and
there he is on his knees, head down and unable to rise.
He tries to kick, no use; tries to make a plunge, impossible. Then
he does the only thing there is to do, lies quietly down. They teach
some startling lessons while he is in this position. Shake a newspaper
before his ears and eyes, a thing said to often terrify a horse or pony
if it flaunts unexpectedly before them in the street.
Sometimes a trainer rings a bell or even fires off a dreadful thing
called a pistol while we are prostrate and unable to rise. But with a
man standing close by there is a feeling of safety. And these are good
and useful lessons. They teach fearlessness, and that a great many
sights and sounds that would make us break the traces or throw a rider
and run away if we knew nothing about them, are yet perfectly harmless
of themselves and need cause poor horsy or pony no fear.
I was kindly treated and very happy during the first three years of my
life at the cattle farm. The first simple lessons in training began
when I was a year old. In this department I was a mere “kid pony,” and
in a large field was driven round and round every day, merely guided by
reins, until I had learned to turn to right or left according to the
pressure of the bit in my mouth.
After a few months, I trotted along nearly every day beside a staid,
steady going horse much larger than myself, taller and stronger, that
was hitched to a farm wagon. After I had learned courage and some
stability by these means, a careful, good-natured groom began training
me to the saddle, also to being harnessed to a light cart or wagon. But
my chief use was to be that of a saddle horse.
It took time and patience to bring me up to what was considered a
degree of ripe training, yet during that time I was made useful in
many ways. Then, when at the age of three years, I was sent to a great
“Horse Fair,” it took but a few hours to have several fine offers made
for me, and almost the first thing I knew, a tall lad named Perley Bolt
had become my new master. And I was sent properly tagged and ticketed
to a place called Greenpoint, where a number of wealthy families had
beautiful summer residences.
Near the “farm,” which always for me means my first home, there were
several children who used to be allowed occasionally to mount the
ponies once they were considered sufficiently steady and gentle to be
guided by the young people. I liked well the touch of the smooth hands
and the laughing, coaxing voices.
They would tickle me with make-believe whips of braided twine or with
a bunch of tied-up grasses when wanting a swift run around the field.
It was my nature to be brisk and sportive, so, when a merry boy or a
lively, fun-loving girl would leap astride my shining back, giving me
a smart little slap, away I would go, fleet, sure-footed, enjoying the
fun quite as much as my youthful rider. And if the wispy whip showed
they wished to go still faster and romp along, romp I would until an
indrawn rein warned that I must tone down, and take the way more slowly.
I have spoken of Marco Boo, owned by Will Barrows, another boy of
Greenpoint, and as Marco like myself was reared at the farm, I of
course felt interested in him as an old acquaintance.
Marco was a fine, spirited creature, but very nervous and apt to
be irritable if teased or driven until overtired. Will Barrows
unfortunately was fond of teasing everything that came his way. A cat
or dog or even his little sister were objects he delighted to worry and
hector; so I felt sorry for poor mettlesome Marco, fearing it would
go hard with him, having his own disposition to contend with and Will
Barrows for a master.
But here we were settled at Greenpoint and not very far from each
other. And I began by alluding to the pony trot about to take place one
charming day in early June. Also the four ponies whose names were given
together with their owners, were the ones entered and were to compete
as said before.
At the outskirts of the town was a large automobile manufactory with
a wide circular track around the buildings where the machines were
tried and tested. As more cars were ordered than could be completed
in several months, there was likely to be but little outside practice
for a few days. So the boys were given permission to run their ponies
around the even drive as long as they liked that fair morning.
At the fourth round, the pony coming first to the stake was to be
declared the fastest one in town, and was to be given a pretty blanket.
Now Perley Bolt cared nothing whatever for the blanket. All kinds
of covers were neatly folded on shelves in the harness-room of his
father’s stable; but he did care to have it said he owned the fastest
pony in town. I was determined he should. Phil, the groom, combed my
coat of shining bay, then rubbed it down with flannel and chamois until
I shone like a polished mirror. Moreover he wet my fetlocks, sponged my
head, and wove a red ribbon in my mane.
In high fettle I started out, arching my neck and lifting high my hoofs
in token of the pride I felt in coming victory.
We were to start four abreast; I next to Marco Boo who was at one end,
Tony Swift was on my other side, Go-It on the other end. News of the
race had spread far and wide, and the enclosure was full of people.
Men, boys and gay lassies were on hand to witness the test, which after
all was to be of the simplest character. Merely four ponies, each
trying to outrun the others.
At a given signal off we started, Go-It slightly in the lead. He had a
free, swinging gait, and by means of an occasional kick-out kept well
ahead during the first round. The face of Hiram Wilks showed one broad
grin, so pleased was the big boy at the brave output of his spunky
little pony.
But during the second round, Marco Boo all at once, with head stretched
forward, tail afloat and hoofs flying, shot ahead of poor Go-It, and
the grin that had been on Hiram Wilks’ face was transferred to that of
Will Barrows.
I felt fear in a pony way for Marco Boo, because from what among other
things I had heard and seen at the farm, I knew that a violent spurt
of unusual speed could not long be kept up. And sure enough, at the
beginning of the third round, Marco suddenly “broke up,” and despite
Will Barrows’ loud cries and waving of the stinging pony whip, both
Tony Swift and I, Pony Dexter, flew ahead. Then it was nip and tuck for
us two. Tony was a quarter hand taller than I, the heaviest built of us
all, and as his name indicated, swift and enduring.
Had our riders but known it, it would have been far better to have
kept more quiet, bent to the work of guiding us, trusting to our own
instinctive ambition to strive to run the other down. But Thomas Gray
shouted, hooted, rose in the saddle, and acted as though the noise he
made and the mad figure he cut was going to rush Tony Swift to sure
victory.
Perley Bolt, astride my back, was nearly as bad. He jerked the bit in
my mouth, pulled my mane, dug his heels into my sides and roared at me
as if to scare me into swifter action.
Until now I had not put forth all my strength. But suddenly I felt
the good blood that was in me rising and clamouring to assert itself:
I felt also the pushing power of those watching eyes, had heard the
huzzahs when Tony and I took the lead in the race, almost felt the
pounding of Perley’s heart as with breathless heat he urged me on.
Tony Swift’s fleet hoofs seemed scarcely to touch the hard track as he
bounded along at my side. For a brief space we sped neck to neck. I
scarcely saw the bars of the fence as we shot by them. The crowd grew
quiet with interest and excitement. I caught a gasping sound in Tony’s
breathing. The way was becoming short, Tony was going in leaps; so was
I. Then I gathered myself for one great plunge, made it; added half a
dozen astounding leaps, and—the race was won!
The blanket was mine.