Bred In The Bone Part 1

Bred In The Bone.

by Thomas Nelson Page.

I

It was the afternoon before the closing day of the spring meeting of the old Jockey Club that so many people know. The next day was to be the greatest ever known on that course; the Spring Meeting was to go out in a blaze of glory. As to this everybody in sight this spring afternoon was agreed; and the motley crowd that a little before sunset stood cl.u.s.tered within the big white-painted gate of the grounds about the Jockey Club race-stables rarely agreed as to anything. From the existence of the Deity to the effect of a blister on a windgall, through the whole range of stable-thought and horse-talk, there was no subject, speaking generally, on which that mongrel population agreed, except, of course, on one thing--the universal desirability of whiskey. On this one subject they all agreed, always.

Yet they were now all of one mind on the fact that the next day was to be the record on that course. In the first place, the prize in the great over-night event, the steeplechase set for the morrow, was the biggest ever offered by the club, and the "cracks" drawn together for the occasion were the best ever collected at a meeting on that course.

Even such noted steeplechasers as Mr. Galloper's Swallow, Colonel Snowden's Hurricane, and Tim Rickett's Carrier Pigeon, which had international reputations, were on hand for it, and had been sent "over the sticks" every morning for a week in hopes of carrying off such a prize.

There was, however, one other reason for the unwonted unanimity. Old Man Robin--"Col-onel-Theodoric-Johnston's-Robin-suh"--said it was to be the biggest day that was ever seen on that track, and in the memory of the oldest stable-boss old Robin had never admitted that any race of the present could be as great, "within a thousand miles," as the races he used to attend "befo' de wah, when hosses ran all de way from Philidelphy to New Orleans." Evil-minded stable-men and boys who had no minds--only evil--laid snares and trapfalls for "Colonel Theodoric Johnston's Robin, of Bull-field, suh," as he loved to style himself, to trip him and inveigle him into admissions that something was as good now as before the war; but they had never succeeded. The gang had followed him to the gate, where he had been going off and on all the afternoon, and were at their mischief now while he was looking somewhat anxiously out up the parched and yellow dusty road.

"Well, I guess freedom 's better 'n befo' d' wah?" hazarded one of his tormentors, a hatchet-faced, yellow stable-boy with a loud, sharp voice.

He burst into a strident guffaw.

"Maybe, you does," growled Robin. He edged off, rubbing his ear. "Befo'

de wah you 'd be mindin' hawgs--what you ought to be doin' now, stidder losin' races an' spilin' somebody's hosses, mekin' out you kin ride." A shout of approving derision greeted this retort.

Old Robin was a man of note on that circuit. It was the canon of that crowd to boast one's self better than everyone else in everything, but Robin was allowed to be second only to the speaker and the superior of everyone else with a unanimity which had its precedent only after Salamis.

Robin had been head of Colonel Theodoric Johnston's stable before the war, the time on which his mind dwelt with tender memory; and this, with the consideration with which he was treated by stable-owners and racing-gentlemen who shone like luminaries on the far edge of the stable-boys' horizon, and the old man's undoubted knowledge of a horse, made him an authority in that world.

The Bullfield stable had produced some of the greatest horses of the country--horses to which the most ignorant stable-biped knew the great winners of the present traced back their descent or were close akin--and if Colonel Johnston's stable lost anything of prestige, it was not in Robin's telling of it. He was at it now as he stood at the big white gate, gazing up the road, over which hung a haze of dust. Deucalion, Old Nina, Planet, f.a.n.n.y Was.h.i.+ngton, and the whole gleaming array of fliers went by in Robin's illumined speech, mixed up with Revenue, Boston, Timoleon, Sir Archy and a dozen others in a blaze of equine splendor.

"Aw, what 're you giffin us!" jeered a dusky young mulatto, clad in a ragged striped sweater, recently discharged as a stable-boy. "What wus the time then? Why 'n't you read the book?"

This was a dig at Robin, for he was "no great hand at reading," and the crowd knew it and laughed. The old man turned on the speaker.

"Races now ain't no mo' than quarter-dashes. Let 'em try 'em in fo'-mile heats if they want to see what 's in a hoss. Dat 's the test o' wind an' bottom. _Our_ hosses used to run fo'-mile heats from New York to New Orleans, an' come in with their heads up high enough to look over dis gate."

"Why 'n't you read the books?" persisted the other, facing him.

"I can't read not much better than you ken _ride_," retorted Robin.

This was a crusher in that company, where riding stood high above any literary attainment; for the other had been a failure as a jockey.

He tried to rally.

"I 'll bet you a hundred dollars I can----"

Robin gazed at him witheringly.

"You ain' got a hunderd dollars; you ain't got a hunderd cents! You would n't 'a' been wuth a hunderd dollars in slave-times, an' I know you ain' wuth it now."

The old man, with a final observation that he did n't want to have to go to court as a witness when folks were taken up for stealing their master's money, took out and consulted his big gold stop-watch. That was his conclusive and clinching argument. It was surprising what an influence that watch exercised. Everyone who knew Robin knew that watch had been given him before the war as a testimonial by the stewards of the Jockey Club. It had the indisputable record engraved on the case, and had been held over the greatest race-horses of the country. Robin could go up to the front door of the club and ask for the president--he possessed this exclusive privilege--and be received with an open hand and a smile, and dismissed with a jest. Had not Major McDowell met him, and introduced him to a duke as one of his oldest friends on the turf, and one who could give the duke more interesting information about the horses of the past than any other man he knew? Did not Colonel Clark always shake hands with him when they met, and compare watches? So now, when, as the throng of horse-boys and stable-attendants stood about him, Robin drew his watch and consulted it, it concluded his argument and left him the victor. The old trainer himself, however, was somewhat disturbed, and once more he gazed up the road anxiously. The ground on which he had predicted the greatness of the next day was not that the noted horses already present were entered for the race, but much more because he had received a letter from one whom he sometimes spoke of as "one of his childern," and sometimes as "one of his young masters"--a grandson of his old master, Colonel Theodoric Johnston of Bullfield--telling him that he was going to bring one of his horses, a colt his grandfather had given him, and try for the big steeplechase stake.

Old Robin had arranged the whole matter for him, and was now awaiting him, for he had written that he could not get there until late in the day before the race, as he had to travel by road from the old place.

Though old Robin let no one know of his uneasiness, he was watching now with great anxiety, for the sun was sinking down the western sky toward the green bank of trees beyond the turn into the home stretch, and in an hour more the entries would be closed.

While he waited he beguiled the time with stories about his old master's stable, and about the equine "stars" that shone in the pedigree of this horse.

Colonel Johnston's fortune had gone down with the close of the war, and when his stable was broken up he had recommended his old trainer to one of his friends and had placed him with a more fortunate employer.

Robin had not seen his old master's grandson for years--not since he was a little boy, when Robin had left home--and he pictured him as a das.h.i.+ng and handsome young gentleman, such as he remembered his father before him. As to the horse, not Sir Archy himself had been greater. Robin talked as though he had had the handling of him ever since he was dropped; and he ran over a pedigree that made the boys about him open their wicked eyes.

Just then a stable-boy discerned out on the highway across the field a rider, coming along at a swinging trot that raised the dust and shot it in spurts before him.

"Yonder he come now!" cried the urchin, with a grimace to attract the attention of the crowd. They looked in the direction indicated, and then in' chorus began to shout. Old Robin turned and glanced indifferently down the road. The next instant he wheeled and his black hand made a clutch at the boy, who dodged behind half a dozen others as a shout of derisive laughter went up from the throng. What Robin saw was only a country lad jogging along on a big raw-boned, blazed-faced horse, whose hipbones could be seen even at that distance.

"You know dat ain't my horse!" said the old man, sharply. "You young boys is gittin' too free with you' moufs! Dat horse----"

The rest of his speech, however, was lost; for at that moment the horseman turned from the highway into the road to the race-course and came swinging on toward the gate. The gang behind old Robin broke into renewed jeers, but at the same time kept well out of his reach; for the old man's face bore a look that no one dared trifle with, and he had a heavy hand on occasion, as many of them had come to know. His eyes now were fastened on the horse that was rapidly approaching through a cloud of dust on the yellow road, and a look of wonder was growing on his brown face.

The rider pulled rein and drew up just outside the open gate, looking down on the group there in some bewilderment Then his eyes lighted up, as the old trainer stepped out and, taking off his hat, put forth his hand.

"Uncle Robin!"

"My young master." He took the bridle just as he might have done years before had his old master ridden up to the gate.

The act impressed the gang behind him as few things could have done, and though they nudged one another, they fell back and huddled together rather farther away, and only whispered their ridicule among themselves.

The boy sprang from the saddle, and the old man took possession of the horse.

They were a strange-looking pair, horse and rider, fresh from the country, both of them dusty and travel-stained, and, as the stable-boys whispered among themselves, both "starving for the curry-comb."

The lad pa.s.sed in at the gate, whipping the dust from his clothes with the switch he carried.

"Good-evening, boys."

Robin glared back fiercely to see that no insolent response was made, but there was no danger. The voice and manner were such that many a hand jerked up to a cap. Besides, the young lad, though his clothes were old and travel-stained, and his hair was long and was powdered with dust, showed a clean-cut face, a straight back, broad shoulders, and muscular legs, as he strode by with a swing which many a stable-boy remarked.

Robin led the horse away around the end of the nearest stable. No one would have known his feelings, for he kept a severe countenance, and broke out on the nearest stable-boy with fierce invective for not getting out of his way.

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, a.s.serted 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.