Chapter II

There was a great hubbub all around and about me as the race ended. Perley Bolt, naturally tall, looked as though he had grown still taller as the young people pressed forward, shook his hand, said pleasant words of praise, and patted my face, neck and moist sides.

A very proud pony I was as my prouder master, mounting me, rode slowly away. Phil rubbed me down thoroughly, but would take no notice of my desire to get over to the trough and satisfy my eager thirst. Not until he had rubbed me dry and thrown a light linen cover over me would he let me drink.

I suppose knowing creatures like men, can tell when it is safe or unsafe to let animals drink cold water. Certain it is I had to wait Phil’s time to get near the trough. Then how grateful, how delightful, the long, deep draughts of refreshing water! Surely man and beast must be thankful for this common boon and blessing.

I believe Phil gave me a little more than my usual supply of timothy and sweet clover for dinner, then, like a sensible pony, I dozed and rested quietly through the long, delicious summer afternoon.

Toward evening, my master, Perley, sauntered over to the stable, and during the talk he had with Phil, I gathered that a second pony race was already being planned. Will Barrows claimed that Marco Boo made an unfortunate sprint because of being stung by a great green fly at just the wrong moment. And Thomas Gray declared that the only reason Tony Swift failed of winning the race, was because of having had the wrong bit in his mouth by mistake.

A day or two afterward in talking the affair over with his friends, Perley said with an air of importance:—

“Now there’s one thing certain, whichever pony wins the race—that is, if I consent to enter Dexter again—there must be no making up excuses for those who fail. The one who comes out ahead wins fair and square.”

I scarcely knew why a touch of scorn crept into the boy’s voice as he added,

“I’m sorry Dexter can’t race for another prize, but my father doesn’t like the idea. He gave away the blanket Dexter won and said it was glory enough to know I owned the fastest little trotter in town. He wasn’t going to have stakes put up on anything in his stable.”

“I shall be satisfied to have Marco Boo come into his own, and be acknowledged the fastest pony in town,” Will Barrows said provokingly.

“Let’s see him do it,” laughed Thomas Gray, owner of Tony Swift.

As the other boys turned away, Perley said to me,

“Now, Mister Dexter, you’re to take it easy until next trotting day; meantime, I must teach you a little something about saving your strength and speed in racing, for a strong final struggle.”

He needn’t have troubled himself about teaching me that. Had I not already proved having some sense of the advantage of hoarding breath and muscle for the last hard reach?

The second trial came on attended with even more interest and a larger crowd than before. And every pony of the four came to the auto circle, fresh, full of spirit, and understanding what was expected of him—to prove himself the fleetest footed pony in the town. Reward enough it would be to either one to be patted, petted, and praised for having won the race.

Tony Swift held high his glossy head and sniffed the air as if to say: “Now watch me win where the other day I failed.”

Go-It stepped lightly and looked the game little fellow he really was.

Marco Boo took no notice of the rest of us, not even of me, his special acquaintance. I fancied Will Barrows might have taunted poor, sensitive Marco for not having outdone me on those last momentous leaps when we raced before.

We were drawn up in line ready for the starting signal to be given, when a soft-hearted young girl exclaimed,

“Oh, I think it’s a shame to race those pretty creatures! Cruel, to pit them one against another, making them fly like mad, straining every nerve and wearing themselves out in the exertion they must make.”

She was with an older sister, who replied laughingly,

“Why, Bettie, they like it! It’s just as much fun for a horse or pony to run and race as it was for you to play ‘tag’ a few years ago. There is nothing cruel in running a healthy young pony round this small ring four times. It wouldn’t tire out four strong boys. So, enjoy it, Bettie, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”

She spoke the truth. As long as we are not unduly forced, lashed, or pricked with spurs, we like to dash out, show our speed, and realizing there is a goal ahead, run for it with all the vim there is in us. Who has not seen two or three dogs rushing along, heedless of everything but a desire on the part of each to leave the others behind. Just so, we small fellows of the great horse family feel our ambition to run and win in the simple trial of speed.

I was glad to see that Bettie looked happily on as we awaited the signal to start. Her eyes shone and once she felt the sport was sport indeed for us, she was quite as ready to enjoy it as anyone.

The flag was waved and off we flew. Marco Boo, who I thought looked sullen as he fell into line, lagged at the rear, taking no notice apparently of Will Barrows’ angry cries and efforts to make him push on. I was slightly ahead from the start, Tony Swift but a pace or two behind. Go-It was keeping up a steady, sweeping gait without a sign of breaking.

At the end of the second round Marco Boo was way behind. Go-It was nearly at my side. Tony Swift had fallen back by a couple of hands’ breadth.

All at once Marco Boo lowered his head, struck out his heels, shook his mane like an angry steer, and tore as if wild, causing loud shouts and cheers to rise from the amused and now freshly expectant crowd.

Before the third round was completed Marco had distanced all but myself, and I, bound to be the winner again if possible, ran as if for my life, no more than a yard ahead of the suddenly awakened Marco.

And so on until within a few feet of the goal. Will Barrows, ready to shout with triumph, sat lightly in the saddle, raising himself every other moment as if to lighten the pony’s load, his high, exultant tones no doubt lending speed to Marco’s bounding hoofs, at the same time I knew Perley Bolt was trembling with excitement, as with fierce and husky voice he called me “good, good boy,” and entreated me to make but one bound more.

Only a bound it seemed, and a second time I should have leaped to success, but within that short stride to a second victory my hoof caught, I tripped, and amid loud huzzahs Marco Boo rushed to the pole.

I did not quite fall, but the sharp halt at the critical moment proved my Waterloo. There had been a slight defect in the splendid track from the first of our starting out. It may be our flying hoofs had deepened it. What wonder that my small hoof catching directly in the little rut should have arrested my flight, and stopped the headlong race?

It was Will Barrows’ turn to exult and receive congratulations as he patted Marco Boo’s head with real pride. Leaving me to myself, Perley Bolt went over to the spot where I halted, then going up to the group about Will Barrows he said angrily,

“Why shouldn’t Dexter have slipped? Go look at the hole big as my two fists where his hoof caught. Wonder is he wasn’t thrown and I with him!”

“Oh, none of that,” jeered Will Barrows. “You made the terms yourself, Perley,” he repeated laughingly: “‘There must be no making up of excuses for those who do not win. Whoever comes in first will do it fair and square the same as I did with Dexter.’ I’ve got the fastest pony in town.”

Of course, Perley could not say a word to this, and he turned away with a frown on his face not pleasant to see. I was wishing he would come to me for my left knee was beginning to be painful, and I realized that in sinking downward on clapping my hoof into that hole I extricated it with a wrench that was going to tell.

As I stood by the rail merely fastened by my bridle I longed to have Phil apply the liniment that always helped me when sprained or bruised. I gave a low whinny, looking toward Perley, but he impatiently bade me “shut up” and I wondered how I would fare when at last he should deign to notice me.

I soon felt that a bunch was rising on my knee, but speechless animal that I was, it was useless trying to make my displeased young master understand that I needed care and easing.

That is one of the hard parts of being a mere animal without voice to make a plaint or tell of suffering. Patience is the only thing that helps us, and few human beings imagine how much patience and endurance poor dumb animals have to teach themselves, in order to bear their aches and pains, and also to excuse the thoughtlessness of masters, young and old.