An air of belligerence still hung about the boat, thick as the smell of
the cattle. The twelve stallions, ranged amidships, bickered like the
men. The alleyway before them was narrow; they could stretch their
necks all the way across it, and they were everlastingly doing so--not
in the friendly way of the long-horned steers that stretched out merely
to draw attention to themselves lest somebody might have food for them,
but stretched out crankily, even at their mildest, and at their worst,
devilishly. When one did so thrust out its head the ears were always
laid back, the teeth showing, the eyes rolled white, glinting round to
see what the neighbour was up to. Out would come that neighbour's head
like a darting snake, and snap would go the teeth left and right. Out
came the next head, and so on along the line--till every horse was
snapping left and right save the end ones, that had only to keep alert
inwards. Thus were they with each other, and when human beings came
along each tried to take a piece out of the passer by; and when he
succeeded in running the gauntlet, tried to take a piece out of its
neighbour for having wished to share the human being's head.
Most of the men attempted the "Whoa now! Steady boy!" method, not only
for their own sakes, but for those who were to handle the horses later.
The night watchman used to go past them on hands and knees. Scholar
saw him do so once, and immediately gave up his practice of going on to
the upper deck, and passing over them so, and descending again; gave up
even descending to the lower deck and running the gauntlet of the men
there (which was not quite as bad as that of the stallions, for not all
were unfriendly) when coming and going. Now, when he had occasion to
go forward alone, he always did so by way of the horses, the direct
way, and passed them slowly. Each one of them seemed to be possessed
of a devil. Cockney had an ear torn off--and the temper of the
stallions was not improved thereby. That fellow was a marvel. He got
the bandage off the dent of the taffrail on the third day, and that
afternoon he had his head bound up afresh because of his torn ear. He
expressed no opinion about these stallions, he voiced no threat, not
even to the steward who bandaged him, fresh from the accident; but
after the steward had done with him, and he had brought the odour of
iodoform into our midst and been decently sympathised with, he stole
away armed with a cudgel. Those who saw him slip it up under his
jacket said nothing. He swung with flapping trousers, a vigorous bag
of bones, along the alley where the stallions challenged all comers.
Out came the head of stallion one at his approach, and crash went the
cudgel on its nose. That brought out the head and neck of the second,
brought out the craning necks of all of them; and Cockney flailed his
way along the line, flailed up and down, and flailed his way back
again, and returned to the cattlemen's den and sat down upon the bunk's
edge, with the spreading stain of a fresh hemorrhage upon the bandage.
Men looked at the head between those thin hands.
[Illustration: Flailed his way along the line.]
"Your ear's a-bleedin' again," said one.
"Never mind me hear," he answered. "I give them socks."
But another man eventually advised him to go back to the steward and
have his ear re-dressed. The stallions were not improved by this
treatment. It was impossible now to "stay with" any one of them,
hanging on to its upper lip and stroking the forehead, whether it would
or not, and crooning: "Whoa there! Steady boy!" They raised their
heads high, and launched downwards. Later on, Cockney, back again from
the doctoring, put his hand to his head and said: "I tell you this
'urts, it does!" suddenly rose and went out again; and once more some
men guessed what manner of errand he went upon, but said nothing.
William saw him at his flailing this time.
"What are you doing?" he said, charging upon him. "I'd give you the
same if you hadn't got enough already."
"Wot for?" asked Cockney, and as he thrust forward his face his eyes
danced and blazed feverishly, like the eyes of one at bay, under the
white bandage.
"For hitting them," replied William.
"Bit off my hear, didn't they?" said Cockney.
"You leave them alone," William advised.
"You keep 'em from bitin' off people's 'eads, then. They're your
stallions, ain't they?"
"You leave them alone."
Cockney fired one word at William, his eyes as if a lamp was reflected
in them. William wrestled inwardly, clenched his hands at his side,
and Cockney moved on. William turned back from him, letting the matter
rest there in consideration of Cockney's state; but he did not look
where he was going, still had a lingering inclination to punch Cockney
anyhow, and had his head turned so that Cockney could see that thought
in his eye. The end stallion flung its head up and down, with a
sidewise swing, loose necked, and William got the blow full on the side
of his face and head, and went down.
"Yah!" jeered Cockney, as William dragged himself up on one palm,
clapping the flat of his other hand to his temple, and he returned by
way of the upper deck (for he was at the far end of the stallion row)
with a dancing step, to narrate to those in the cattlemen's quarters
what had befallen. And they were quietly satisfied, for William was no
favourite. They all remembered how he had come to their door one
morning, and stood behind Candlass in the attitude of a prize-fighter
being photographed for the posters.
The steers were not like that. Many of the men had pets among them.
There was a big fellow on the main deck that won almost all the men
over, all those that could be won over by anything. He began his
engaging ways about the third day, and kept them up thereafter. As
soon as he saw anything on two legs advancing he thrust his head across
the alley, holding it a little tilted like a cat that asks to have its
neck scratched. After the feeding and watering was over knots would
linger there, beside that wise long-horn. The hand was not enough; he
preferred the edge of a piece of board rubbed up and down. Seeing how
he enjoyed a scratch, various men offered themselves as scratchers to
other beasts. You could see the men all along the alley, each with a
piece of board, arms going up and down automaton-like, the steers with
their heads slowly turning, gratified. And as the men like clock-work
figures scratched the beasts' necks, they carried on shouting
discussions each to each. But this big fellow who inaugurated the
scratching was especially charming. When one side was scratched
sufficiently for the time being, he would raise his head up and over,
carefully, so that his long horns might not smite his human friend, and
then present the other side of the neck for treatment. If the movement
was not observed he would turn his head slowly to the side,
pushing--none of your swinging blows from him, no suggestion ever of
drawing back his head and launching it forward with sharp horn
projecting.
The bulls, too, that had been unruly the first day, were now all
friendly. If a man happened to lean against their pen, he would be
reminded of where he was, not by a prod of a horn, but by a ringed nose
nuzzling into the hands held behind.
After the glorious scent of balsam, blown out to us from the south
shore, became so thin it was scarcely perceptible amid the smell of
beasts, the whoop of the siren, thrilling the decks, on and on, was
added to the lowing of the steers and the bleating of sheep. The
_Glory_ slowed down slightly and glided into the Newfoundland fog.