I had soon decided that Gladys Fleming was an attractive, winsome young
creature of warm heart and loving nature. She enjoyed putting me to my
best speed on part of the homeward way, and I found hearty pleasure
in responding to her clucks and smart little pats, leaving light
hoof-prints along the even, sunny road.
I also felt it certain that the lordly looking young man mounted on
the mottled Arabian, a horse of medium build and perfect shape, knew
quite as much concerning Miss Gladys’ fine traits as anyone did. The
graceful Arabian was close beside me all the homeward path. “I want
father to buy me this pony,” said the laughing girl, “but Tillings says
that Perley Bolt is desperate to get him back. He stands ready to pay
more than Mr. Van Vim gave for him. But Mr. Van Vim said he shouldn’t
have him back under a week from the time he began to be driven again if
at all. I’ve told Tillings to let me know just the hour the week is up
and he promises he will. Then if Perley hasn’t reclaimed him, father
says perhaps I shall have Dexter for my own dear pony. I want him
dreadfully!”
“When will the week be up?” asked her companion, Mr. Chester Moore.
“Next Thursday at noon,” Gladys replied.
Now I at once became anxious to have the three days remaining before
Thursday noon expire. What would take place before then, who could
tell? I only knew I was very, very anxious to have Gladys for a
mistress, but was helpless to let her know it. I could only stretch out
my neck for the caress she was quick to give as she dismounted at the
stable, and look after her with beseeching eyes as they led me back to
my stall.
Two days after this we had a bit of rare sport at Van Vim’s. There
was a great cat that persistently kept around the stable. Had he been
useful and of a good disposition he would have been welcome and kindly
treated. But he was determined to tease and pester the more nervous
horses, and would worry the little dogs that were really afraid of him.
Consequently the stable men tried to get rid of him.
One day, Tillings was obliged to go some twenty miles into the country,
taking a horse and buggy to a man who had purchased both. He was to
return by train. Here was a grand chance to dispose of “Hector,” as
he had been dubbed. It was thought to be no cruelty to drop a great
healthy cat, and let him grub for himself or find a good home, as he
could, if he only would behave himself.
The trip was taken, Hector released, and given the privilege of teasing
where he could. Late in the afternoon Tillings entered the stable to
behold Hector perched a-top of a great bran box, as the man said,
“grinning from ear to ear.” He had reached Greenpoint by ways best
known to himself, sooner than Tillings had reached it by train.
Before this, a grocer had wanted him, and one morning carried him away.
No; Hector had made up his pussy-cat mind to stay at Van Vim’s stable,
and stay he would whether wanted or not.
So there he was still nibbling at the fetlocks of mettlesome horses,
and tormenting every little dog that followed its master to the stable.
Tillings set his mind to work wondering by what means he could drive
him away once for all. He could do nothing cruel, yet was bound to rid
the place of him as soon as possible.
On that day, the second after the fox hunt, Marco Boo, two or three
frolicsome young horses and myself were in the stable yard, all full
of life and fun, as without tether or rein we were free to caper about
as we chose. Tillings was fastening a “boot” around the leg of a horse
that “interfered” when Hector gave a sly nip at the thoroughbred’s hind
leg.
“Quick as a wink” Tillings seized the great cat and threw him over into
the stable yard midst the kicking, romping horses. A spry animal like
a cat is hard to be cornered. It will either run up a tree, leap to a
fence or cuddle in a corner, defiance in every bristling hair. Nature
has taught him the sharp trick of eluding running hoofs and rolling
wheels.
But for once Hector was completely confused. There was no tree to
climb, the fence was too high to be reached by a single bound, and the
rounding fence offered no corners. Neither was horse or pony going to
mince matters for the frightened cat’s accommodation. Had Tillings
stopped to witness Hector’s dilemma, his kind heart might have failed
him in carrying out the deserved penalty.
He ducked as for his life between our legs, tried to leap the fence but
failed, clawed at it for a knot hole, but there was none. Finally in a
fierce attempt to reach a crack at the stable door, he came down plump
on Marco Boo’s back. The pony immediately laid down, and rolled over,
shedding the nimble cat, who squeezed himself close to the fence while
perilously near the bounding hoofs he could not seem to elude.
At length in wild frenzy he made a bold dash, flew to the back of a
horse and from that flew completely over the fence, landing with a slam
on the back of an astonished staghound, who immediately gave fierce and
growling chase. The loud whistle of his master called him back, but
Hector’s flying heels made the men who witnessed the droll scamper roar
with laughter.
[Illustration: HE MADE A BOLD DASH—FLEW TO THE BACK OF A HORSE, ETC.]
And that was the last of Hector. What with scratching for his life
midst a yardful of heedless, scampering horses, escaping by a
furious bound and merciless tumble, to be chased by a great growling
hound of a dog, Hector evidently was warned by every scrap of feline
instinct he possessed, that he had better seek pastures new in which to
indulge his teasing nature.
The week was not quite up when it would be decided who was to become my
new mistress or master when an event occurred, which, all unforeseen,
was to bring greater changes in my life than any I had yet even dreamed
of.
From remarks that have reached my ears, it must be that men and women
think their lives are changeful, but they perhaps seldom give a
thought to the fact that poor dumb animals feel change only second in
keenness to the way human beings feel it. We are susceptible to great
homesickness, notice, sometimes quite unhappily, a different diet, and
have been known to grieve to death over parting with a beloved master
or mistress.
But in speaking of changes, I had heard Phil at Mr. Bolt’s stable,
exclaim, “Ah, weel a-weel, sic is life!” and Tillings at Mr. Van Vim’s
livery, cry, “Faix, an’ sich is life!” So I suppose if many an animal
could use human language, its cry would be, “Ah well, such is life!”