ARABIAN BLOOD.
Philip made up his mind that he would ride into town in a quiet and
dignified way. To be sure, he would have been glad to find out what
Jouncer was really made of, and whether or not, if he were put to his
mettle, he would show any signs of that Arabian blood which some of the
boys believed to be coursing in his veins. But he would do nothing of
this kind to-day. He was going on a business errand, to see one of the
principal men of Boontown, and he would ride his uncle’s horse as his
uncle always rode him.
But Jouncer had not jogged along on the turnpike road more than a
quarter of a mile before the sound of rapidly-approaching wheels was
heard behind him.
“Hello, Phil!” cried the well-known voice of Chap Webster. “I didn’t
believe it at first, but it’s really true. Why, you are on Jouncer!”
Phil turned, and saw behind him a spring-wagon, drawn by a small gray
horse, and driven by a short and very stout boy, by whose side sat Chap
Webster.
“Hello, Phœnix!” said Phil. “Where are you going?”
“I am going to town after father,” said the stout boy.
This youth’s name was Phineas Poole, but his boy friends called him
Phœnix, and by that name he was generally known.
“But what are you doing on Jouncer?” cried Chap.
“Well,” said Phil, with an air as if the matter was of slight
importance, “I thought I’d ride him into town to-day. He ought to be
exercised, you know.”
“Well, why don’t you exercise him?” said Chap, very earnestly. “If I
was on his back I wouldn’t be crawlin’ along like that. If you ever
want to find out whether he has got Arabian blood in him or not, now’s
your chance.”
“What would you do?” asked Phil.
“Do!” cried Chap. “Why, I’d put him across that ditch, and over that
fence, and I’d clip it in a bee-line straight across the fields to
town!”
“Clip both your legs off,” said Phil, “and break his neck! I’m not
going to make such a fool of myself the first day I ride my uncle’s
horse.”
“Upon my word!” said Chap, in a desponding voice; then addressing
himself to Phœnix, he said, “I do believe that Phil Berkeley is nothing
but a humdrumist, after all! And to think of his opportunities! Come,
Phœnix, touch up Selim, and let’s get along to town. It will be time
enough to go at this rate when we take to riding cows.”
Selim was a resolute little horse, who, when he was touched up,
generally did his best, and so, the moment he felt the whip, he put his
head down as low as he could get it, and began to work his sturdy legs
with as much rapidity as if a heavy head of steam had just been let on
to the engine which moved his machinery, and the spring-wagon passed
rapidly by Jouncer and went rattling ahead.
Now, Phil was a boy of spirit, and did not like this treatment at all.
Without a moment’s hesitation he jammed his heels into Jouncer’s sides
and urged him forward. Jouncer, too, was a horse of spirit, and never
fancied being passed on the road, often giving his master considerable
trouble on such occasions, and it is likely, therefore, even if he had
not felt Philip’s heels, that he would have made haste to overtake
that spring-wagon, and now, having a double motive, he struck into a
gallop, and soon caught up with the vehicle.
“Hi!” shouted Chap, in great excitement, turning around, and half
standing up as he spoke; “don’t let him pass us! Whip up Selim! That
Jouncer can’t beat us into town! Good-by, Phil!”
When Selim felt the whip again--and it came down a good deal harder
this time--he put on more steam, and as he had been trotting as fast
as he could before, he now began to run. After him came Jouncer,
clattering furiously on the hard turnpike.
“It is ridiculous,” thought Phil, “for a little horse like that, with
a wagon and two boys behind him, to keep ahead of Jouncer and me,” and
with his heels and a little riding-cane he carried, he began to urge
his horse to greater speed.
Jouncer’s blood, whatever kind it was, now began to boil, and he
soon needed no urging. Turning a little to the left, he galloped so
vigorously that it seemed that he must quickly pass the wagon. But
Selim was a stanch little horse, and could run at a high speed,--for a
short distance, at any rate,--and the wagon behind him seemed to be a
matter he did not consider at all. He clattered bravely on, and still
kept the lead, Chap shouting wildly, and Phœnix bringing down the whip
every now and then with a resolute whang.
A loaded hay-wagon was now seen ahead, and it was with some difficulty
that the stout Phœnix turned his horse so as to pass on one side
without a collision.
Jouncer passed on the other side, and when the rider and the drivers
came in sight of each other again, Jouncer was ahead, and after that he
kept the lead, galloping as madly as if he were carrying the news to
Aix.
The boys in the wagon, for a short time, pushed on after him at their
best speed, but soon perceiving that they could not catch up with
Jouncer, and that they were beaten in the race, they pulled up their
panting and dripping little horse, and let him walk the rest of the way
to town.
Philip, as soon as he saw that he had won in the trial of speed, began
to pull up Jouncer, but he did no more than begin, for he found the
undertaking too much for him. Arabian blood seemed to give a hardness
to the jaw, a stiffness to the neck, and a power of leaping and
bounding to the body of a horse which he had never dreamed of. He could
not stop Jouncer at all, and so went dashing along the turnpike until
he thundered wildly into the main street of the town, which, as it was
market-day, was pretty well thronged with vehicles and people.
[Illustration]