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Bred In The Bone
by
The horse carried his head high, and, with pointed ears, wide eyes, and dilated nostrils, inspected everything on either side.
It was only when the new-comer and Robin were out of hearing that the jeers broke out aloud, and even then several of the on-lookers, noting the breeding along with the powerful muscles and flat bone, asserted that it was “a good horse, all the same.” They had eyes for a good horse.
II
As the old trainer led the horse away around the long stables, the low rumble of far-off thunder grumbled along the western horizon–Robin glanced in that direction. It might mean a change in the chances of every horse that was to run next day. The old man looked downcast; the boy’s countenance cleared up. He scanned the sky long and earnestly where a dull cloud was stretching across the west; then he followed the horse among the long lines of low buildings with a quickened step.
It was not till they had reached a box-stall in an old building far off in one corner of the grounds that the old negro stopped. When he had been expecting another horse–the horse of which he had boasted to his entire acquaintance–he had engaged in advance a box in one of the big, new stables, where the descendant of the kings would be in royal and fitting company. He could not bring himself now to face, with this raw-boned, sunburnt colt, the derisive scrutiny of the men who had heard him bragging for a week of what his young master would show them when he came. Yet it was more on his young master’s account than on his own that he now slunk away to this far-off corner. He remembered his old master, the king of the turf, the model of a fine gentleman, the leader of men; whose graciousness and princely hospitality were in all mouths; whose word was law; whose name no one mentioned but with respect.
He remembered his young master as he rode away to the war on one of the thoroughbreds, a matchless rider on a matchless horse. How could he now allow their grandson and son, in this rusty suit, with this rusty colt at which the stable-boys jeered, to match himself against the finest men and horses in the country? He must keep him from entering the horse.
But as the old fellow stopped before the stall and glanced at the horse he had been leading, his face changed. It took on the first look of interest it had worn since the horse had appeared on the road in a cloud of dust. He was standing now directly in front of him. His eyes opened. The deep chest, the straight, clean legs with muscles standing out on the forearms in big knots, the fine head with its broad, full brow, its wide eyes full of life and intelligence, the delicate muzzle, suddenly caught his eye. He took a step to one side, and scanned the horse from top to hoof, and his face lighted up. Another step, and he ran his hand over him, up and down, from topknot to fetlock, from crest to croup. At every touch his eyes opened wider.
“Umhm! He hard as a rock!” He was talking aloud, but to himself. “He ‘s got de barrel to stay, an’ he leg jes as clean as a pin!”
It was the first word of praise he had vouchsafed. The young owner’s face lighted up. He had felt the old man’s disappointment, and his heart had been sinking. It was lifted now.
“What you say he pedigree?”
“Imported Learn—-“
“I know. Dat ‘s de blood! Imported Leamington–Fanny Wash’n’ by Revenue! He ‘ll do. Hit ‘s bred in de bone!”
“Did you ever see such bone?” the boy asked, running his hand over the big knee-joint.
The old trainer made no answer. He glanced furtively around to see that no one heard the question. Then he went on feeling the horse, inch by inch. Every muscle and sinew he ran his hand over, and each moment his face cleared up more and more. “He ain’ nothin’ but rock!” he said, straightening up. “Walk him off dyah, son”–with a wave of his hand–“walk him.”