Chapter I

Such a bright beautiful morning as it was when we set out for the pony trot! Several well-grown boys in our neighbourhood owned ponies. There was Marco Boo, owned by Will Barrows; Tony Swift, owned by Thomas Gray; Go-It, the property of Hiram Wilks, and myself:—Pony Dexter, with Perley Bolt for master. It was the four of us that were entered for the morning’s run.

Now a pony has eyes with which to see, and ears with which to hear, and it was no fault of mine that I heard grown lads, pretty young girls, and even a number of men, praise what they called my “dandy appearance” and extra fine “points.”

So, once I began to notice more particularly the various things said in my hearing, it did not take me long to understand that my neck was long and unusually well-arched for a pony, my head short, ears upright, while there was a perfect curve from the top of the head to the middle of the back. The body was rather slender in which “rich veins” showed: the legs, with neither splints nor side bones of objectionable size, were straight, with flexible muscles and delicate fetlocks, the hoofs strong and high-heeled.

My dam, or mother, was a Welsh pony that had been brought to this country, and probably both speed and endurance were traceable to this lineage. For colour I was a light bay, with coal black mane and tail, both long and full-haired.

I wish it could be said with truth that I loved my master. Horses large and small, and ponies young or well grown are naturally affectionate and if only kindly treated, are gentle, kind and willing.

But I once heard a man say that Perley Bolt, my young master, had things too “soft” for his own good. I gradually found out that this meant Perley had too much money to do what he pleased with, was allowed to do pretty much as he chose, and had in consequence become a self-willed, high-tempered young fellow.

I was reared on a large stock-farm, a place where a great many horses and ponies were bred, trained and sold. It is not much fun being trained or “broken” as they call it. In first attempting management they allow a certain length of rein that a pony does not understand the use of. Then, if he bolts, tries to run, shows temper or great resistance, first thing he knows, by some trick of raising a strap that has been attached just above the hoofs, he is tripped up, and there he is on his knees, head down and unable to rise.

He tries to kick, no use; tries to make a plunge, impossible. Then he does the only thing there is to do, lies quietly down. They teach some startling lessons while he is in this position. Shake a newspaper before his ears and eyes, a thing said to often terrify a horse or pony if it flaunts unexpectedly before them in the street.

Sometimes a trainer rings a bell or even fires off a dreadful thing called a pistol while we are prostrate and unable to rise. But with a man standing close by there is a feeling of safety. And these are good and useful lessons. They teach fearlessness, and that a great many sights and sounds that would make us break the traces or throw a rider and run away if we knew nothing about them, are yet perfectly harmless of themselves and need cause poor horsy or pony no fear.

I was kindly treated and very happy during the first three years of my life at the cattle farm. The first simple lessons in training began when I was a year old. In this department I was a mere “kid pony,” and in a large field was driven round and round every day, merely guided by reins, until I had learned to turn to right or left according to the pressure of the bit in my mouth.

After a few months, I trotted along nearly every day beside a staid, steady going horse much larger than myself, taller and stronger, that was hitched to a farm wagon. After I had learned courage and some stability by these means, a careful, good-natured groom began training me to the saddle, also to being harnessed to a light cart or wagon. But my chief use was to be that of a saddle horse.

It took time and patience to bring me up to what was considered a degree of ripe training, yet during that time I was made useful in many ways. Then, when at the age of three years, I was sent to a great “Horse Fair,” it took but a few hours to have several fine offers made for me, and almost the first thing I knew, a tall lad named Perley Bolt had become my new master. And I was sent properly tagged and ticketed to a place called Greenpoint, where a number of wealthy families had beautiful summer residences.

Near the “farm,” which always for me means my first home, there were several children who used to be allowed occasionally to mount the ponies once they were considered sufficiently steady and gentle to be guided by the young people. I liked well the touch of the smooth hands and the laughing, coaxing voices.

They would tickle me with make-believe whips of braided twine or with a bunch of tied-up grasses when wanting a swift run around the field. It was my nature to be brisk and sportive, so, when a merry boy or a lively, fun-loving girl would leap astride my shining back, giving me a smart little slap, away I would go, fleet, sure-footed, enjoying the fun quite as much as my youthful rider. And if the wispy whip showed they wished to go still faster and romp along, romp I would until an indrawn rein warned that I must tone down, and take the way more slowly.

I have spoken of Marco Boo, owned by Will Barrows, another boy of Greenpoint, and as Marco like myself was reared at the farm, I of course felt interested in him as an old acquaintance.

Marco was a fine, spirited creature, but very nervous and apt to be irritable if teased or driven until overtired. Will Barrows unfortunately was fond of teasing everything that came his way. A cat or dog or even his little sister were objects he delighted to worry and hector; so I felt sorry for poor mettlesome Marco, fearing it would go hard with him, having his own disposition to contend with and Will Barrows for a master.

But here we were settled at Greenpoint and not very far from each other. And I began by alluding to the pony trot about to take place one charming day in early June. Also the four ponies whose names were given together with their owners, were the ones entered and were to compete as said before.

At the outskirts of the town was a large automobile manufactory with a wide circular track around the buildings where the machines were tried and tested. As more cars were ordered than could be completed in several months, there was likely to be but little outside practice for a few days. So the boys were given permission to run their ponies around the even drive as long as they liked that fair morning.

At the fourth round, the pony coming first to the stake was to be declared the fastest one in town, and was to be given a pretty blanket.

Now Perley Bolt cared nothing whatever for the blanket. All kinds of covers were neatly folded on shelves in the harness-room of his father’s stable; but he did care to have it said he owned the fastest pony in town. I was determined he should. Phil, the groom, combed my coat of shining bay, then rubbed it down with flannel and chamois until I shone like a polished mirror. Moreover he wet my fetlocks, sponged my head, and wove a red ribbon in my mane.

In high fettle I started out, arching my neck and lifting high my hoofs in token of the pride I felt in coming victory.

We were to start four abreast; I next to Marco Boo who was at one end, Tony Swift was on my other side, Go-It on the other end. News of the race had spread far and wide, and the enclosure was full of people. Men, boys and gay lassies were on hand to witness the test, which after all was to be of the simplest character. Merely four ponies, each trying to outrun the others.

At a given signal off we started, Go-It slightly in the lead. He had a free, swinging gait, and by means of an occasional kick-out kept well ahead during the first round. The face of Hiram Wilks showed one broad grin, so pleased was the big boy at the brave output of his spunky little pony.

But during the second round, Marco Boo all at once, with head stretched forward, tail afloat and hoofs flying, shot ahead of poor Go-It, and the grin that had been on Hiram Wilks’ face was transferred to that of Will Barrows.

I felt fear in a pony way for Marco Boo, because from what among other things I had heard and seen at the farm, I knew that a violent spurt of unusual speed could not long be kept up. And sure enough, at the beginning of the third round, Marco suddenly “broke up,” and despite Will Barrows’ loud cries and waving of the stinging pony whip, both Tony Swift and I, Pony Dexter, flew ahead. Then it was nip and tuck for us two. Tony was a quarter hand taller than I, the heaviest built of us all, and as his name indicated, swift and enduring.

Had our riders but known it, it would have been far better to have kept more quiet, bent to the work of guiding us, trusting to our own instinctive ambition to strive to run the other down. But Thomas Gray shouted, hooted, rose in the saddle, and acted as though the noise he made and the mad figure he cut was going to rush Tony Swift to sure victory.

Perley Bolt, astride my back, was nearly as bad. He jerked the bit in my mouth, pulled my mane, dug his heels into my sides and roared at me as if to scare me into swifter action.

Until now I had not put forth all my strength. But suddenly I felt the good blood that was in me rising and clamouring to assert itself: I felt also the pushing power of those watching eyes, had heard the huzzahs when Tony and I took the lead in the race, almost felt the pounding of Perley’s heart as with breathless heat he urged me on.

Tony Swift’s fleet hoofs seemed scarcely to touch the hard track as he bounded along at my side. For a brief space we sped neck to neck. I scarcely saw the bars of the fence as we shot by them. The crowd grew quiet with interest and excitement. I caught a gasping sound in Tony’s breathing. The way was becoming short, Tony was going in leaps; so was I. Then I gathered myself for one great plunge, made it; added half a dozen astounding leaps, and—the race was won!

The blanket was mine.