Mr. Harry pulled some lumps of sugar out of his pocket, and giving them to Miss Laura, told her to put them on the palm of her hand and hold it out flat toward Fleetfoot. The colt ate the sugar, and all the time eyed her with his quiet, observing glance, that made her exclaim: “What wise-looking colt!”
“He is like an old horse,” said Mr. Harry, “When he hears a sudden noise, he stops and looks all about him to find an explanation.”
“He has been well trained,” said Miss Laura.
“I have brought him up carefully,” said Mr. Harry. “Really, he has been treated more like a dog than a colt. He follows me about the farm and smells everything I handle, and seems to want to know the reason of things.”
“Your mother says,” replied Miss Laura, “that she found you both asleep on the lawn one day last summer, and the colt’s head was on your arm.”
Mr. Harry smiled and threw his arm over the colt’s neck. “We’ve been comrades, haven’t we, Fleetfoot? I’ve been almost ashamed of his devotion. He has followed me to the village, and he always wants to go fishing with me. He’s four years old now, so he ought to get over those coltish ways. I’ve driven him a good deal. We’re going out in the buggy this afternoon, will you come?”
“Where are you going?” asked Miss Laura.
“Just for a short drive back of the river, to collect some money for father. I’ll be home long before tea time.”
“Yes, I should like to go,” said Miss Laura “I shall go to the house and get my other hat.”
“Come on, Fleetfoot,” said Mr. Harry. And he led the way from the pasture, the colt following behind with me. I waited about the veranda, and in a short time Mr. Harry drove up to the front door. The buggy was black and shining, and Fleetfoot had on a silver-mounted harness that made him look very fine. He stood gently switching his long tail to keep the flies away, and with his head turned to see who was going to get into the buggy. I stood by him, and as soon as he saw that Miss Laura and Mr. Harry had seated themselves, he acted as if he wanted to be off. Mr. Harry spoke to him and away he went, I racing down the lane by his side, so happy to think he was my friend. He liked having me beside him, and every few seconds put down his head toward me. Animals can tell each other things without saying a word. When Fleetfoot gave his head a little toss in a certain way, I knew that he wanted to have a race. He had a beautiful even gait, and went very swiftly. Mr. Harry kept speaking to him to check him.
“You don’t like him to go too fast, do you?” said Miss Laura.
“No,” he returned. “I think we could make a racer of him if we liked, but father and I don’t go in for fast horses. There is too much said about fast trotters and race horses. On some of the farms around here, the people have gone mad on breeding fast horses. An old farmer out in the country had a common cart-horse that he suddenly found out had great powers of speed and endurance. He sold him to a speculator for a big price, and it has set everybody wild. If the people who give all their time to it can’t raise fast horses I don’t see how the farmers can. A fast horse on a farm is ruination to the boys, for it starts them racing and betting. Father says he is going to offer a prize for the fastest walker that can be bred in New Hampshire. That Dutchman of ours, heavy as he is, is a fair walker, and Cleve and Pacer can each walk four and a half miles an hour.”
“Why do you lay such stress on their walking fast?” asked Miss Laura.
“Because so much of the farm work must be done at a walk. Ploughing, teaming, and drawing produce to market, and going up and down hills. Even for the cities it is good to have fast walkers. Trotting on city pavements is very hard on the dray horses. If they are allowed to go at a quick walk, their legs will keep strong much longer. It is shameful the way horses are used up in big cities. Our pavements are so bad that cab horses are used up in three years. In many ways we are a great deal better off in this new country than the people in Europe, but we are not in respect of cab horses, for in London and Paris they last for five years. I have seen horses drop down dead in New York just from hard usage. Poor brutes, there is a better time coming for them though. When electricity is more fully developed we’ll see some wonderful changes. As it is, last year in different places, about thirty thousand horses were released from those abominable horse cars, by having electricity introduced on the roads. Well, Fleetfoot, do you want another spin? All right, my boy, go ahead.”
Away we went again along a bit of level road. Fleetfoot had no check-rein on his beautiful neck, and when he trotted, he could hold his head in an easy, natural position. With his wonderful eyes and flowing mane and tail, and his glossy, reddish-brown body, I thought that he was the handsomest horse I had ever seen. He loved to go fast, and when Mr. Harry spoke to him to slow up again, he tossed his head with impatience. But he was too sweet-tempered to disobey. In all the years that I have known Fleetfoot, I have never once seen him refuse to do as his master told him.
“You have forgotten your whip, haven’t you Harry?” I heard Miss Laura say, as we jogged slowly along, and I ran by the buggy panting and with my tongue hanging out.
“I never use one,” said Mr. Harry; “if I saw any man lay one on Fleetfoot, I’d knock him down.” His voice was so severe that I glanced up into the buggy. He looked just as he did the day that he stretched Jenkins on the ground, and gave him a beating.
“I am so glad you don’t,” said Miss Laura. “You are like the Russians. Many of them control their horses by their voices, and call them such pretty names. But you have to use a whip for some horses, don’t you, Cousin Harry?”
“Yes, Laura. There are many vicious horses that can’t be controlled otherwise, and then with many horses one requires a whip in case of necessity for urging them forward.”
“I suppose Fleetfoot never balks,” said Miss Laura.
“No,” replied Mr. Harry; “Dutchman sometimes does, and we have two cures for him, both equally good. We take up a forefoot and strike his shoe two or three times with a stone. The operation always interests him greatly, and he usually starts. If he doesn’t go for that, we pass a line round his forelegs, at the knee joint, then go in front of him and draw on the line. Father won’t let the men use a whip, unless they are driven to it.”
“Fleetfoot has had a happy life, hasn’t he?” said Miss Laura, looking admiringly at him “How did he get to like you so much, Harry?”
“I broke him in after a fashion of my own. Father gave him to me, and the first time I saw him on his feet, I went up carefully and put my hand on him. His mother was rather shy of me, for we hadn’t had her long, and it made him shy too, so I soon left him. The next time I stroked him; the next time I put my arm around him. Soon he acted like a big dog. I could lead him about by a strap, and I made a little halter and a bridle for him. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t train him a little while he was young and manageable.
“I think it is cruel to let colts run till one has to employ severity in mastering them. Of course, I did not let him do much work. Colts are like boys—a boy shouldn’t do a man’s work, but he had exercise every day, and I trained him to draw a light cart behind him. I used to do all kinds of things to accustom him to unusual sounds. Father talked a good deal to me about Rarey, the great horse-tamer, and it put ideas into my head. He said he once saw Rarey come on a stage in Boston with a timid horse that he was going to accustom to a loud noise. First a bugle was blown, then some louder instrument, and so on, till there was a whole brass band going. Rarey reassured the animal, and it was not afraid.”
“You like horses better than any other animals, don’t you, Harry?” asked Miss Laura.
“I believe I do, though I am very fond of that dog of yours. I think I know more about horses than dogs. Have you noticed Scamp very much?
”
“Oh, yes; I often watched her. She is such an amusing little creature.”
“She’s the most interesting one we’ve got, that is, after Fleetfoot. Father got her from a man who couldn’t manage her, and she came to us with a legion of bad tricks. Father has taken solid comfort though, in breaking her of them. She is his pet among our stock. I suppose you know that horses, more than any other animals, are creatures of habit. If they do a thing once, they will do it again. When she came to us, she had a trick of biting at a person who gave her oats. She would do it without fail, so father put a little stick under his arm, and every time she would bite he would give her a rap over the nose. She soon got tired of biting, and gave it up. Sometimes now, you’ll see her make a snap at father as if she was going to bite, and then look under his arm to see if the stick is there. “He cured some of her tricks in one way, and some in another. One bad one she had was to start for the stable the minute one of the traces was unfastened when we were unharnessing. She pulled father over once, and another time she ran the shaft of the sulky clean through the barn door. The next time father brought her in, he got ready for her. He twisted the lines around his hands, and the minute she began to bolt, he gave a tremendous jerk, that pulled her back upon her haunches, and shouted, ‘Whoa!’ It cured her, and she never started again, till he gave her the word. Often now, you’ll see her throw her head back when she is being unhitched. He only did it once, yet she remembers. If we’d had the training of Scamp, she’d be a very different animal. It’s nearly all in the bringing up of a colt, whether it will turn out vicious or gentle. If any one were to strike Fleetfoot, he would not know what it meant. He has been brought up differently from Scamp.
“She was probably trained by some brutal man who inspired her with distrust of the human species. She never bites an animal, and seems attached to all the other horses. She loves Fleetfoot and Cleve and Pacer. Those three are her favorites.”
“I love to go for drives with Cleve and Pacer,” said Miss Laura, “they are so steady and good. Uncle says they are the most trusty horses he has. He has told me about the man you had, who said that those two horses knew more than most ‘humans.’”
“That was old Davids,” said Mr. Harry; “when we had him, he was courting a widow who lived over in Hoytville. About once a fortnight, he’d ask father for one of the horses to go over to see her. He always stayed pretty late, and on the way home he’d tie the reins to the whip-stock and go to sleep, and never wake up till Cleve or Pacer, whichever one he happened to have, would draw up in the barnyard. They would pass any rigs they happened to meet, and turn out a little for a man. If Davids wasn’t asleep, he could always tell by the difference in their gait which they were passing. They’d go quickly past a man, and much slower, with more of a turn out, if it was a team. But I dare say father told you this. He has a great stock of horse stories, and I am almost as bad. You will have to cry ‘halt,’ when we bore you.”
“You never do,” replied Miss Laura. “I love to talk about animals. I think the best story about Cleve and Pacer is the one that uncle told me last evening. I don’t think you were there. It was about stealing the oats.”
“Cleve and Pacer never steal,” said Mr. Harry. “Don’t you mean Scamp? She’s the thief.”
“No, it was Pacer that stole. He got out of his box, uncle says, and found two bags of oats, and he took one in his teeth and dropped it before Cleve, and ate the other himself, and uncle was so amused that he let them eat a long time, and stood and watched them.”
“That was a clever trick,” said Mr. Harry. “Father must have forgotten to tell me. Those two horses have been mates ever since I can remember, and I believe if they were separated, they’d pine away and die. You have noticed how low the partitions are between the boxes in the horse stable. Father says you wouldn’t put a lot of people in separate boxes in a room, where they couldn’t see each other, and horses are just as fond of company as we are. Cleve and Pacer are always nosing each other. “A horse has a long memory. Father has had horses recognize him, that he has been parted from for twenty years. Speaking of their memories reminds me of another good story about Pacer that I never heard till yesterday, and that I would not talk about to anyone but you and mother. Father wouldn’t write me about it, for he never will put a line on paper where any one’s reputation is concerned.”
Chapter XXVI
The Box of Money
“This story,” said Mr. Harry, “is about one of the hired men we had last winter, whose name was Jacobs. He was a cunning fellow, with a hangdog look, and a great cleverness at stealing farm produce from father on the sly, and selling it. Father knew perfectly well what he was doing, and was wondering what would be the best way to deal with him, when one day something happened that brought matters to a climax.
“Father had to go to Sudbury for farming tools, and took Pacer and the cutter. There are two ways of going there—one the Sudbury Road, and the other the old Post Road, which is longer and seldom used. On this occasion father took the Post Road. The snow wasn’t deep, and he wanted to inquire after an old man who had been robbed and half frightened to death, a few days before. He was a miserable old creature, known as Miser Jerrold, and he lived alone with his daughter. He had saved a little money that he kept in a box under his bed. When father got near the place, he was astonished to see by Pacer’s actions that he had been on this road before, and recently, too. Father is so sharp about horses, that they never do a thing that he doesn’t attach a meaning to. So he let the reins hang a little loose, and kept his eye on Pacer. The horse went along the road, and seeing father didn’t direct him, turned into the lane leading to the house. There was an old red gate at the end of it, and he stopped in front of it, and waited for father to get out. Then he passed through, and instead of going up to the house, turned around, and stood with his head toward the road.
“Father never said a word, but he was doing a lot of thinking. He went into the house, and found the old man sitting over the fire, rubbing his hands, and half-crying about ‘the few poor dollars,’ that he said he had had stolen from him. Father had never seen him before, but he knew he had the name of being half silly, and question him as much as he liked, he could make nothing of him. The daughter said that they had gone to bed at dark the night her father was robbed. She slept up stairs, and he down below. About ten o’clock she heard him scream, and running down stairs, she found him sitting up in bed, and the window wide open. He said a man had sprung in upon him, stuffed the bedclothes into his mouth, and dragging his box from under the bed, had made off with it. She ran to the door and looked out, but there was no one to be seen. It was dark, and snowing a little, so no traces of footsteps were to be perceived in the morning.
“Father found that the neighbors were dropping in to bear the old man company, so he drove on to Sudbury, and then returned home. When he got back, he said Jacobs was hanging about the stable in a nervous kind of a way, and said he wanted to speak to him. Father said very good, but put the horse in first. Jacobs unhitched, and father sat on one of the stable benches and watched him till he came lounging along with a straw in his mouth, and said he’d made up his mind to go West, and he’d like to set off at once.
“Father said again, very good, but first he had a little account to settle with him, and he took out of his pocket a paper, where he had jotted down, as far as he could, every quart of oats, and every bag of grain, and every quarter of a dollar of market money that Jacobs had defrauded him of. Father said the fellow turned all the colours of the rainbow, for he thought he had covered up his tracks so cleverly that he would never be found out. Then father said, ‘Sit down, Jacobs, for I have got to have a long talk with you.’ He had him there about an hour, and when he finished, the fe
llow was completely broken down. Father told him that there were just two courses in life for a young man to take; and he had gotten on the wrong one. He was a young, smart fellow, and if he turned right around now, there was a chance for him. If he didn’t there was nothing but the State’s prison ahead of him, for he needn’t think he was going to gull and cheat all the world, and never be found out. Father said he’d give him all the help in his power, if he had his word that he’d try to be an honest man. Then he tore up the paper, and laid there was an end of his indebtedness to him.
“Jacobs is only a young fellow, twenty-three or thereabout, and father says he sobbed like a baby. Then, without looking at him, father gave in account of his afternoon’s drive, just as if he was talking to himself. He said that Pacer never to his knowledge had been on that road before, and yet he seemed perfectly familiar with it, and that he stopped and turned already to leave again quickly, instead of going up to the door, and how he looked over his shoulder and started on a run down the lane, the minute father’s foot was in the cutter again. In the course of his remarks, father mentioned the fact that on Monday, the evening that the robbery was committed, Jacobs had borrowed Pacer to go to the Junction, but had come in with the horse steaming, and looking as if he had been driven a much longer distance than that. Father said that when he got done, Jacobs had sunk down all in a heap on the stable floor with his hands over his face. Father left him to have it out with himself, and went to the house.
“The next morning, Jacobs looked just the same as usual, and went about with the other men doing his work, but saying nothing about going West. Late in the afternoon, a farmer going by hailed father, and asked if he’d heard the news. Old Miser Jerrold’s box had been left on his door step some time through the night, and he’d found it in the morning. The money was all there, but the old fellow was so cute that he wouldn’t tell anyone how much it was. The neighbors had persuaded him to bank it, and he was coming to town the next morning with it, and that night some of them were going to help him mount guard over it. Father told the men at milking time, and he said Jacobs looked as unconscious as possible However, from that day there was a change in him. He never told father in so many words that he’d resolved to be an honest man, but his actions spoke for him. He had been a kind of sullen, unwilling fellow, but now he turned handy and obliging, and it was a real trial to father to part with him.”
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