There was a great hubbub all around and about me as the race ended.
Perley Bolt, naturally tall, looked as though he had grown still taller
as the young people pressed forward, shook his hand, said pleasant
words of praise, and patted my face, neck and moist sides.
A very proud pony I was as my prouder master, mounting me, rode slowly
away. Phil rubbed me down thoroughly, but would take no notice of my
desire to get over to the trough and satisfy my eager thirst. Not until
he had rubbed me dry and thrown a light linen cover over me would he
let me drink.
I suppose knowing creatures like men, can tell when it is safe or
unsafe to let animals drink cold water. Certain it is I had to wait
Phil’s time to get near the trough. Then how grateful, how delightful,
the long, deep draughts of refreshing water! Surely man and beast must
be thankful for this common boon and blessing.
I believe Phil gave me a little more than my usual supply of timothy
and sweet clover for dinner, then, like a sensible pony, I dozed and
rested quietly through the long, delicious summer afternoon.
Toward evening, my master, Perley, sauntered over to the stable, and
during the talk he had with Phil, I gathered that a second pony race
was already being planned. Will Barrows claimed that Marco Boo made an
unfortunate sprint because of being stung by a great green fly at just
the wrong moment. And Thomas Gray declared that the only reason Tony
Swift failed of winning the race, was because of having had the wrong
bit in his mouth by mistake.
A day or two afterward in talking the affair over with his friends,
Perley said with an air of importance:—
“Now there’s one thing certain, whichever pony wins the race—that is,
if I consent to enter Dexter again—there must be no making up excuses
for those who fail. The one who comes out ahead wins fair and square.”
I scarcely knew why a touch of scorn crept into the boy’s voice as he
added,
“I’m sorry Dexter can’t race for another prize, but my father doesn’t
like the idea. He gave away the blanket Dexter won and said it was
glory enough to know I owned the fastest little trotter in town. He
wasn’t going to have stakes put up on anything in his stable.”
“I shall be satisfied to have Marco Boo come into his own, and be
acknowledged the fastest pony in town,” Will Barrows said provokingly.
“Let’s see him do it,” laughed Thomas Gray, owner of Tony Swift.
As the other boys turned away, Perley said to me,
“Now, Mister Dexter, you’re to take it easy until next trotting day;
meantime, I must teach you a little something about saving your
strength and speed in racing, for a strong final struggle.”
He needn’t have troubled himself about teaching me that. Had I not
already proved having some sense of the advantage of hoarding breath
and muscle for the last hard reach?
The second trial came on attended with even more interest and a larger
crowd than before. And every pony of the four came to the auto circle,
fresh, full of spirit, and understanding what was expected of him—to
prove himself the fleetest footed pony in the town. Reward enough it
would be to either one to be patted, petted, and praised for having won
the race.
Tony Swift held high his glossy head and sniffed the air as if to say:
“Now watch me win where the other day I failed.”
Go-It stepped lightly and looked the game little fellow he really was.
Marco Boo took no notice of the rest of us, not even of me, his special
acquaintance. I fancied Will Barrows might have taunted poor, sensitive
Marco for not having outdone me on those last momentous leaps when we
raced before.
We were drawn up in line ready for the starting signal to be given,
when a soft-hearted young girl exclaimed,
“Oh, I think it’s a shame to race those pretty creatures! Cruel, to
pit them one against another, making them fly like mad, straining every
nerve and wearing themselves out in the exertion they must make.”
She was with an older sister, who replied laughingly,
“Why, Bettie, they like it! It’s just as much fun for a horse or pony
to run and race as it was for you to play ‘tag’ a few years ago. There
is nothing cruel in running a healthy young pony round this small
ring four times. It wouldn’t tire out four strong boys. So, enjoy it,
Bettie, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”
She spoke the truth. As long as we are not unduly forced, lashed, or
pricked with spurs, we like to dash out, show our speed, and realizing
there is a goal ahead, run for it with all the vim there is in us. Who
has not seen two or three dogs rushing along, heedless of everything
but a desire on the part of each to leave the others behind. Just so,
we small fellows of the great horse family feel our ambition to run and
win in the simple trial of speed.
I was glad to see that Bettie looked happily on as we awaited the
signal to start. Her eyes shone and once she felt the sport was sport
indeed for us, she was quite as ready to enjoy it as anyone.
The flag was waved and off we flew. Marco Boo, who I thought looked
sullen as he fell into line, lagged at the rear, taking no notice
apparently of Will Barrows’ angry cries and efforts to make him push
on. I was slightly ahead from the start, Tony Swift but a pace or two
behind. Go-It was keeping up a steady, sweeping gait without a sign of
breaking.
At the end of the second round Marco Boo was way behind. Go-It was
nearly at my side. Tony Swift had fallen back by a couple of hands’
breadth.
All at once Marco Boo lowered his head, struck out his heels, shook his
mane like an angry steer, and tore as if wild, causing loud shouts and
cheers to rise from the amused and now freshly expectant crowd.
Before the third round was completed Marco had distanced all but
myself, and I, bound to be the winner again if possible, ran as if for
my life, no more than a yard ahead of the suddenly awakened Marco.
And so on until within a few feet of the goal. Will Barrows, ready to
shout with triumph, sat lightly in the saddle, raising himself every
other moment as if to lighten the pony’s load, his high, exultant tones
no doubt lending speed to Marco’s bounding hoofs, at the same time I
knew Perley Bolt was trembling with excitement, as with fierce and
husky voice he called me “good, good boy,” and entreated me to make but
one bound more.
Only a bound it seemed, and a second time I should have leaped to
success, but within that short stride to a second victory my hoof
caught, I tripped, and amid loud huzzahs Marco Boo rushed to the pole.
I did not quite fall, but the sharp halt at the critical moment proved
my Waterloo. There had been a slight defect in the splendid track from
the first of our starting out. It may be our flying hoofs had deepened
it. What wonder that my small hoof catching directly in the little rut
should have arrested my flight, and stopped the headlong race?
It was Will Barrows’ turn to exult and receive congratulations as he
patted Marco Boo’s head with real pride. Leaving me to myself, Perley
Bolt went over to the spot where I halted, then going up to the group
about Will Barrows he said angrily,
“Why shouldn’t Dexter have slipped? Go look at the hole big as my two
fists where his hoof caught. Wonder is he wasn’t thrown and I with him!”
“Oh, none of that,” jeered Will Barrows. “You made the terms yourself,
Perley,” he repeated laughingly: “‘There must be no making up of
excuses for those who do not win. Whoever comes in first will do it
fair and square the same as I did with Dexter.’ I’ve got the fastest
pony in town.”
Of course, Perley could not say a word to this, and he turned away with
a frown on his face not pleasant to see. I was wishing he would come to
me for my left knee was beginning to be painful, and I realized that
in sinking downward on clapping my hoof into that hole I extricated it
with a wrench that was going to tell.
As I stood by the rail merely fastened by my bridle I longed to have
Phil apply the liniment that always helped me when sprained or bruised.
I gave a low whinny, looking toward Perley, but he impatiently bade me
“shut up” and I wondered how I would fare when at last he should deign
to notice me.
I soon felt that a bunch was rising on my knee, but speechless animal
that I was, it was useless trying to make my displeased young master
understand that I needed care and easing.
That is one of the hard parts of being a mere animal without voice to
make a plaint or tell of suffering. Patience is the only thing that
helps us, and few human beings imagine how much patience and endurance
poor dumb animals have to teach themselves, in order to bear their
aches and pains, and also to excuse the thoughtlessness of masters,
young and old.