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It was as if he were speaking to a stable-boy. He had now forgotten all but the horse, but the young man understood.

He took the bridle, but the horse did not wait. At the first step he was up with him, with a long, swinging stride as springy as if he were made of rubber, keeping his muzzle close to his master’s shoulder, and never tightening his rein. Now and then he threw up his head and gazed far over beyond the whitewashed fence toward a horse galloping away off on the curving track, as if there were where his interest lay.

“Straight as a plank,” muttered the old trainer, with a toss of his head. “‘Minds me o’ Planet. Got de quarters on him.–Bring him back!” he called.

As the young man returned, the older one asked, “Can he run?”

“Run! Want to see him move!”

Without waiting for an answer, he vaulted into the saddle and began to gather up the reins. The horse lifted his head and gathered himself together, but he did not move from his tracks.

“Wait. How far is you come to-day?” demanded Robin.

“About forty miles. I took it easy.” He turned the horse’s head.

The old man gave an exclamation, part oath, part entreaty, and grabbed for the reins just as the boy was turning toward the track, where a whitewashed board fence stood over four feet high.

“Wait–whar you gwine! Forty mile! Whar you gwine? Wait!”

“Over into the track. That fence is nothing.”

He settled himself in the saddle, and the horse threw up his head and drew himself together. But old Robin was too quick for him. He clutched the rider by the leg with one hand at the same time that he seized the bridle with the other.

“Git off him; git off him!” Without letting go the bridle, he half lifted the boy from the saddle.

“That won’t hurt him, Uncle Robin. He ‘s used to it. That fence is nothing.”

“Gi’ me dis hoss dis minute. Forty mile, an’ ‘spec’ to run to-morrow! Gi’ me dis hoss dis minute, boy.”

The young owner yielded with a laugh, and the old trainer took possession of the horse, and led him on, stopping every now and then to run his hand over his sinewy neck and forelegs, and grumbling to himself over the rashness of youth.

“Jes like he pa,” he muttered. “Never could teach him to tek keer o’ a hoss. Think all a hoss got to do is to run! Forty mile, an’ want to put him at a five-foot fence when he cold as a wedge!”

When he was inside the stable his manner changed. His coat was off in an instant, and no stable-boy could have been more active. He set about grooming the horse with the enthusiasm of a boy, and the horse after the first inquisitive investigation of his new attendant, made with eye and nose, gave himself up to his care. The young owner did the same, only watching him closely to learn the art of grooming from a past-master of the craft.

It was the first time in years that Robin had played hostler; and it was the first time in his life that that horse had ever had such a grooming. Every art known to the professor of the science was applied. Every muscle was rubbed, every sinew was soothed. And from time to time, as at touch of the iron muscles and steel sinews the old fellow’s ardor increased, he would straighten up and give a loud puff of satisfaction.

“Umph! Ef I jist had about a week wid him, I ‘d show ’em som’n’!” he declared. “Imported Learn—-“

“He don’t need any time. He can beat anything in this country,” asserted the owner from his perch on a horse-bucket.

“You ain’ see ’em all,” said Robin, dryly, as he bent once more to his work. “An’ it ‘s goin’ to rain, too,” he added, as the rumble of thunder came up louder from the westward.