Soon after this, the master and mistress decided to visit some friends who lived about forty-six miles away, and James was to drive them. There were some long, steep hills, but James drove so carefully that we were not tired. He never forgot the brake downhill, and on a long hill he gave us a rest. All these little things help a horse very much.
As the sun was going down, we reached the town where we were going to spend the night and stopped at the big hotel in the market square. The head stableman was a cheerful little old man with a bad leg. He rubbed me down so lightly and quickly that James felt me all over afterwards, as if he could not believe it. But my coat was as clean and smooth as silk.
“Well,” said James, “I thought I was quick, but you beat everyone I ever saw.”
“Practice makes perfect,” said the little old man. “Forty years of practice! I was a jockey for several years, until my horse fell on a slippery race course and I broke my knee. But I couldn’t live without horses, so I came to work at hotels. Give me twenty minutes with a horse, and I’ll tell you what sort of groom he has had. Look at this one: quiet, pleasant, turns just as you want him and holds up his feet to be cleaned. Another one is nervous, throws up his head when you come near and seems afraid of you. Poor things! I know how they have been treated. Their tempers are mostly made when they are young. They are like children.”
“That’s just what we think at home,” said James. “Our master is Squire Gordon, of Birtwick Park.”
“Ah, I have heard of him. The best rider in the county, isn’t he?”
“I believe he is, but he rides very little now, since his young son was killed.”
“Ah, poor gentleman. I read about it in the paper. A fine horse was killed too, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. He was this one’s brother, and just like him.”
“A pity, a pity!” said the old man. “It was a bad place to jump, if I remember. Now, I like bold riding as much as anyone, but a man’s life and a horse’s life are worth more than a fox’s tail. At least, they should be.”