The Black Mare

I

I STAND on the stable floor and look at her critically. Patrick is at her head fondling her soft nose. There is no doubt that the mare is growing old. There are telltale signs that even an owner cannot ignore. But as she stands she is a delight to the eye. Sleek and lithe, with a proud little head that she holds high, smooth, sloping, muscular withers, and four as slender and lovely legs as horse ever had. Her small, nervous ears are sensitive and alert and her eyes clear,

‘Looks like a thousand dollars, sir,’ Patrick comments. ‘Breeding, that’s what it is, sir. Breeding.’

I do not reply. I continue my observations in silence. I have adopted my stable technique. My relations with Patrick are unusual. I have absolute confidence in his judgment and follow his advice in every detail of his small domain. But Fatrick was born and reared in the old tradition. His comment on the mare is an epitome of his simple creed. As with horses, so with men. ‘Breeding’ — that is the last word. In me he affects, at least, to behold a superior being. His own prestige is heightened by creating an illusion of omniscience in me. He knows in his heart upon what slender foundations this structure has been reared. So he sees to it that by indirection I am shown the way. By suggestion and innuendo he seeks to have me arrive at wise decisions. Early in my relations with him I was guilty of gross improprieties. I performed certain menial tasks which were not mine to perform, I deferred unduly to his judgment, on one or two occasions I abruptly withdrew from delicate negotiations and left them in his hands. These were blunders of the first magnitude. I soon learned my lesson.

In other relationships of life I entertain certain views in regard to a theoretical democracy, the integrity of personality, and, in general, man’s equality. These views have been acquired by much reading and little thought, but they stimulate conversation and add to my secret self-esteem. In the stable, however, I find that my rôle is that of the ‘quality’ with all its pretensions and responsibilities. It is I who must decide, it is I who direct every small detail, and it is from my long inheritance of superior know ledge and experience that comes the sagacious solution of every problem. In the face of Patrick’s undisputed superiority in all stable matters it is a difficult rôle.

But I have adopted a method which seems to satisfy him. I am employing it at the moment. It involves a studied silence and an air of profound reflection during which I count upon receiving from him some subtle hint as to the right decision. This is followed by a brief period of open disagreement with his implied findings and then a dignified acquiescence with them. All this makes our deliberations a little involved and on occasions draws them out to a greater length than they appear to justify, but it maintains the fiction dear to Patrick’s honest heart and gives him pleasure. That is enough.

So at this moment we are enacting the little farce. We are attempting to reach a decision in regard to the mare. Is she fit for further competition in the show ring or is she not? Patrick is right about her appearance and I see that he wishes her to attempt the task we have in mind. But aside from my usual affected indecision I am troubled by very real doubts. Time is taking its inexorable toll. No one knows just how old she is. I can only conjecture, even Patrick can only guess.

She has been in my possession for several years and in all that time she has never done a mean or, what is more, a stupid thing in field or stable. In my modest tack-room there is a display of her trophies, ribbons of various colors, blue happily predominating, and my home is adorned with various pieces of plate, some slightly ornate, which further attest her supremacy in her class. But there is one piece which is not there and which I greatly covet. That elusive bit of plate is the Brooks Cup. It was offered by a riding club for the best performance in the Pony Saddle Class for junior riders. It has been in competition for many years; upon it appears a long list of names, some of them twice, but none has achieved the third win which means permanent possession of this much desired trophy. On two occasions the marc has won the event and a third win is all that is necessary to put the cup in a place of honor in our collection.

It would be much simpler for me to arrive at once at a decision and to dismiss the matter, but my relations with Patrick are such as to make prolonged conference seem desirable. Her age is the only factor against further competition. I much prefer to have her retire on the laurels already won rather than to have her end her ring career with defeat. Her owner and rider entertains no doubts as to her ability to meet the test, but youth is happily optimistic and has not yet learned to know the significance of the signs of encroaching years. It is upon maturer shoulders that the burden of decision rests.

‘She’s perfect, sir,’ Patrick was saying as his gnarled hand caressed the mare. ’All but that one foreleg, the off one, sir. She’s a bit tender and she favors it. She has done a power of work in her time and it is beginning to tell. She’s not bad, you understand, but she might make a misstep and go down. I’d hate to have her do that. Those ring jumps are tricky and the light is bad for one or two of them. It would be too bad to have her lose, but it’s now or never, sir, with this marc; another year and she will not be right. I think she ’ll go through if she’s handled right, but it’s for you to decide, sir.’

Now this is just what I do not want to do. It is a delicate question and I greatly prefer to have someone else assume the responsibility of a decision. We are joined by the owner, and that makes it more difficult. We both know that it is one of the young woman’s minor ambitions to possess that cup, and beneath that desire lie an unbounded affection for and confidence in her little mare. Between them exist an understanding and mutual confidence that reflect credit on them both.

‘Put her over the jumps, miss. Nice and easy, and then let her canter around a couple of times,’ Patrick suggests.

She mounts and rides to a small schooling field I have arranged near by. We watch them go. The mare trots gently to the far end of the field. She picks her way carefully and uses her feet to perfection. There is not the slightest suggestion of uncertainty. Her rider leans forward and caresses her neck. She shakes her head and sidesteps in response. At the end of the field she turns and her delicate ears are erect. Easily she gathers speed, a gentle, rhythmic movement, no haste, no excitement, but every step a little longer and faster as she approaches the first jump. Over she goes, no fumbling, almost no effort, and she lands in her stride to take the next two a bit faster but with equal precision. Then the leisured canter around the improvised track. Neck arched, muzzle in, and tail down, she moves with exquisite grace.

Once more on the stable floor, her eyes are brilliant and her delicate nostrils flex as she stands with what appears to be conscious pride. But critical eyes are upon her. Her sides move gently, she breathes naturally, but there is one blemish and we all see it. That off leg trembles just a hair — the faintest quiver, that is all.

‘She took three jumps and a short canter. There are six in the ring and she will have to take them faster,’ I croak. Patrick is silent, his fingers on the offending leg.

‘She’s all right,’ her owner stoutly maintains. ‘She knows how to handle that leg. She favors it a little, I can feel her do it, but you did not notice it, did you?’

We were compelled to admit that we did not. There had not been a blemish in her performance and certainly she had appeared before a critical audience.

Patrick straightens up and slips the bridle from the mare’s head.

‘She’ll do,’ he says. ‘She’s better to-day than most of them. The only one I am afraid of is the Bradley gray. He is young and he is good, but he’s green in the ring. Now this mare knows all there is to know. She can show herself and can take care of herself. Now, miss,’ he added, ‘if you show her, remember that. Begging your pardon, miss, let her show herself. Let her do as she likes. You just ride along with her. She’ll take you through if you let her have her own way.‘

Patrick, as usual, has given me my cue. It only remains for me to announce a decision.

‘All right, old girl,’ I say. ‘We will give you another chance.’

‘I think you are right, sir,’ Patrick says with profound respect. The oracle has spoken; it is his now only to obey.

I am greatly relieved. Whatever the result, I have the comforting feeling that I have expressed a doubt. I leave Patrick and the owner in consultation and depart to a field of activity in which I feel a little less uncertain of the probable wisdom of some of my decisions.

II

Days of intensive schooling follow. I am not admitted to the sessions and I do not altogether want to be. Doubts assail me and I keep aloof. But from what I can observe from a distance these hours on the schooling field are devoted more to the instruction of the rider than to the exercise of her mount. The mare makes her faultless trips back and forth over the jumps only to be interrupted by Patrick, who corrects some small fault in hands or heels. He raises an authoritative hand and the mare stops. Flushed and bareheaded he stands in the sun looking up at the youthful face above him. I can see his lips move, his hands gesticulate, his body bend forward and back and from side to side. The grave young rider listens with earnest attention and the lesson is resumed. Then follow a few jumps to all appearances exactly like all the others, to be greeted with peals of rich Hibernian laughter and fullthroated ejaculations.

‘That’s the idea, miss! That’s the way she wants it!’

For days before the date of the show I haunt the stable. Patrick spends hours with the mare. The leg is anointed with mysterious liquids and bound in snowy bandages. Under his ministrations she takes on greater beauty. Her coat is like satin; with freshly roached mane and fetlocks trimmed, hoofs oiled and a hair plucked here and there, she looks like a three-year-old.

The mysteries of an equine toilet always fascinate me — the slightly salty odor, the stamp of hoofs, the playful tossing of the head, and the constant hissing which accents every stroke of brush or cloth and which seems to be regarded as an essential part of the ritual. As I sit on an upturned bucket and watch Patrick labor I feel a strange, vicarious delight in the results. I realize that I am experiencing the pleasure of one of the most subtle of human emotions, the pride of ownership. The mere possession of this animal seems in some way to reflect great credit upon myself, upon my sagacity in her purchase, some secret intuition on my part that she was unusual. As a matter of fact, the purchase was quite accidental and could have been accomplished by anyone with a few dollars to spare. Her fearlessness and stamina are no work of my hands, but I like to think they are. Her appearance is due entirely to the untiring industry and skill of an ignorant man whom I employ, and yet I feel a swelling pride in it as if it were I who had accomplished it.

When in reflective mood I am humble and realize that all these pretensions are emptiness and vanity, but in reality they are behind almost all human relationships. A man’s home, designed and equipped by a more skillful person, is always regarded by the owner as a monument to his own taste and judgment; the flowers in his garden bloom because he has some gift, denied to others, which brings them to fruition. It is another who has toiled in heat and cold to bring it all about, but in the twilight and with friends the humble servitor is forgotten and the host conducts slightly bored guests from flower to flower with modest implications of his own skill and patience. So it is with his children; be they virtuous or brilliant, beautiful or accomplished, there is down deep in man a prepossession that he is in some way the reason for it all — that the process of inheritance has enriched them by drawing from the treasures of his own mind and heart to make them what they are. And when they betray some doubtful trait he wonders from what remote and alien source it comes.

So I sit on my bucket and revel in this spectacle of strength and beauty before me with all the foolish self-complacence of a normal, sinful man. I sometimes wonder how much of the pleasure I derive from a number of things comes from a real appreciation of them and how much from mere pride in possession. It is a line of meditation that I do not long pursue because it invariably leads to humiliating conclusions.

But the die has been cast and we are once more on the entry list for the Brooks Cup, and doubts and questionings as to the niceties of human conduct will not help to bring it into our hands. On the morning of the day of the show I wake early with a sense of some impending event of momentous import. 1 make a hurried visit to the stable and find Patrick in the highest spirits, breaking into occasional bursts of song as he bustles about his manifold duties. It is a mood I cannot share. I try to decide whether it is a gayety born of confidence or a brave attempt to ignore possible disaster. The owner eats a hearty breakfast and does not mention the impending afternoon in the ring. Conversation is a bit difficult, as I am led into the discussion of activities which bear no relation to the one thing that fills my mind. I again marvel at the power of detachment in youth, the bland concentration on bacon and eggs when they are the most unimportant things in the world.

At an early hour Patrick departs, mounted and dressed in his best, not through personal pride, I know, but from a desire properly to represent me. He leads the mare, draped in a new cooler with her owner’s initials inconspicuously appearing in one corner. She trots obediently beside Patrick’s heavy mount and looks small and delicate in comparison. The owner does not witness the departure, as she is immersed in the morning paper. I think it bravado, but I do not say so.

After an endless morning of effort to compel business to conquer my preoccupations, I give up and go out to an early lunch. I am unfortunate enough to run into Bradley, the owner of the gray. He appears to me to be in a mood of insufferable indifference, and when I ask him (not that I care in the least) if he plans to attend the show he says, ‘Probably not.’ He pleads the exactions of his profession as an excuse. I naturally regard this as an indirect criticism of myself, and my opinion of this excellent fellow suffers a decline. I try a game of billiards after lunch, but it fails to interest me and I soon seek refuge in the pages of a sporting magazine. Here I encounter an article on the folly of keeping horses in competition after their prime, with a number of instances of disaster to illustrate its unwisdom. I think the whole article absurd, but it does not add to my confidence or composure.

An hour before the appointed time I take my seat in the gallery of the riding club. There are a dozen others who have come to secure points of vantage and among them I recognize several parents who are probably suffering from the same anxieties as I am, but who are still capable of carrying on light conversation with an air of confidence. Not so with me. I put my elbows on the railing in front of me and lapse into moody contemplation. Somewhere in the remote recesses of the great building the mare is receiving the last touches to her toilet. Patrick is inspecting every strap and buckle, and lively banter is being exchanged by callous grooms. They make small wagers and belittle each other’s charges, but after all, I reflect, they cannot care. It is all in a day’s work and means nothing to them. They are but taking orders, and the responsibility of success or failure is not theirs.

Abruptly I find myself again indulging in speculation as to the significance of success or failure in this small episode. What does it all amount to after all? Nothing. A dozen canters around a ring, a few jumps, slightly bedraggled decorations, a not altogether tuneful band, and the bestowal of a piece of tawdry plate for doing an entirely unnecessary thing.

But. then I think of Patrick, of his devotion, his simple creed of doing his small task as well as he can, of his kindness, loyalty, and patience, his wisdom and his foresight, all exercised, perhaps, for a trivial end, but in themselves important in the general scheme of things. Then the owner, youth with its enthusiasms and its ardors, its blessed isolation from many of the sterner realities, its courage and its mirth. Then the mare, this beautiful creature born for man’s service, strength curbed by docility, intelligence governed by the restraint of long training, and an undying spirit of courage and willingness to serve, giving freely of what she has and offering the last of her depleted vigor to serve this strange man who happens to be her master. Perhaps, after all, it is worth while. Perhaps in this little spectacle there lurks a significance which makes it real.

III

As a relief from these somewhat complicated reflections I look about me. My nostrils are again assailed by that rich, pungent odor that I love, but now combined with the scent of tanbark, a matchless combination. The ring lies before me smooth and brown; not a mark disfigures its even surface. The jumps, freshly whitewashed, stand in bold relief, one at each end and two on each of the longer sides of the great oval. The farther one near the corner is the distrusted one. There is a shadow there that cannot be corrected, though a near-by window has been draped to lessen it. In the centre stands a decorated platform, on three sides are slender posts carrying a heavy rope gleaming with pipe clay. There is a table with piles of brilliant ribbon rosettes and gleaming cups. The walls are hung with bunting and in a lofty gallery a band is assembling. Long shafts of sunlight fall from lofty windows and myriads of dust particles hover in sparkling lanes of brilliancy.

Voices are heard in the distance, heavy doors open and close, spectators arrive in groups and with much discussion find their places. I glance at my watch. It lacks but a few minutes of the appointed hour. Presently the heavy gate of the ring opens and an imposing figure appears. It is the Master. He is resplendent in riding togs and boots; a derby hat sits a bit rakishly upon his auburn locks, and his gloves are immaculate. Most of his days are days of toil, of patient inst ruction, long hours of drill and dull routine. But to-day is his day of splendor, of rich apparel and becoming dignity in the observance of an intricate ritual. Most of the contestants have been his pupils, but to-day he is aloof behind the ramparts of a studied indifference. There must be no sign of favoritism, no confession of his consuming pride in their accomplishments. He is followed by a uniformed bugler borrowed from the band. He approaches the stand with stately tread, leaving the first footprints in the smooth tanbark. He nods to the bugler and a fanfare echoes against the rafters. As it dies away the band blares in martial cadences and the judges appear.

In private life I know them all. My relations with some of them are intimate, but to-day they seem remote and awful. Dressed in the most approved mode for such an occasion, they appear in pairs and solemnly take their places on the stand. One or two of them are men who combine this pleasant and picturesque duty with real accomplishment in more important walks of life. Others’ sole claim to recognition is the skill with which they perform this one humble duty. They are men whose judgment outside of the show ring I should regard as valueless, and yet to-day I look upon them as beings apart from the ordinary run of humanity, possessing strange powers of divination and incorruptible honesty. Humble as they are in the hurly-burly of human life, to-day they are Olympians clothed in the majesty of the moment. It is such as they who are to decide the fortunes of the mare and her rider. I am assailed by a cowardly wish that I had been a little more polite to one of them on a recent occasion, but I dismiss this vagrant thought with contempt. I must be as incorruptible as they.

In my impatience I think they indulge in a good deal of unnecessary talk and laughter. One or two of them seem to take their duties with a deplorable lack of seriousness. They fumble the cups and ribbons and consult their programmes. Why do they not get on with their business? Why keep me waiting here with a thousand other duties neglected? I think of the virtuous Bradley and my eye falls upon him as he quietly enters and takes a seat not far from me. I feel better and my regard for him is heightened. He has put the stamp of his professional eminence on the presence of a humbler person here this afternoon.

The judges group themselves at the edge of the stand. Once more the bugle sounds and the gate swings open. The Pony Class is the first event of the afternoon. I am glad. I could not endure sitting through others to wait for it. The little cavalcade appears. It is led by the Bradley gray. A perfect little creature, but evidently a bit nervous and overanxious. He has not become accustomed to the lights and noise. Others follow. It is a good field; not an entry in it would fail of consideration. I wait for the mare. She comes in toward the end of the line. I see at once that she has adopted her ring manner. There is a new spring and lightness in her step, an added toss to her head, and a certain air of breeding as she picks up her dainty feet. I study the rider and find suggestions of a new manner in her as well. She is more relaxed, heels firm but not rigid, hands at rest, back straight but supple. She sits better than usual, lower down in the saddle, and seems more part of her horse than before. There is just the right amount of tension on the snaffle, and a delicate droop in her curb rein. I see the result of the hours on the schooling field.

In single file they make their way around the ring at a walk. Some are restive and crowd forward upon the horse in front of them, some lag and have to be urged on. The mare is evidently beginning to show herself. She keeps a perfect interval from the horse in front of her. She affects a pretty pretense of eagerness, but that is all. Her rider’s hands are motionless. There is no need to hold her back or urge her on. As the Bradley gray reaches the gate once more the trumpet sounds the signal to trot. There is a little confusion, the gray breaks into a slow canter and has to be brought back, others do not respond quickly and there are gaps in the line. The mare gives her head a shake and rattles her curb chain. She responds instantly and trots along smoothly with a bit more action than usual and lifts her feet a trifle higher than she does on the road. It is twice around this time and soon the company is in perfect order, with little to choose between them.

Once more the bugle, this time for a canter, and they are off. The gray curvets out of line for a moment, but soon settles down. I watch the mare and her rider. When the bugle sounded I noticed an almost imperceptible movement of the hands and one heel, but it was not necessary. The mare has heard that signal before and knows what it means. With perfect intervals she moves with just action enough to give her grace. Twice round and a signal from the Master brings them to the centre of the ring, a long line on either side of the stand. Attendants take their places at the jumps and the real test begins. Each rider wears an arm band with a number on it and these numbers are drawn by the judges. As called, each contestant whirls out of line to take the jumps. One after another, with varying success, they meet the test; they are well schooled and the riders know their business. Some click the top bar, but there are no falls and each in turn comes back to the line.

IV

There is a stir as the gray goes out. He is known as a good performer and he gives a faultless exhibition. I think he is a bit too eager, that he rushes it a little and his action is not as smooth as it might be, but he has an air which gives him brilliancy. He will be hard to beat. The mare follows him. As she goes out I catch my breath. I am glad she has had a short rest before going, but not long enough to stiffen that leg. That leg, how it haunts me! At the remote end of the ring there is a line of faces above the parapet. Serious, lined faces, tanned and hard. The grooms have this vantage point from which to watch their charges. I see Patrick. He is smiling his charming Irish smile and saying something to the man next him. I wonder what his reflections are. More cheerful than mine, I hope.

The mare goes out with a little flourish. Her rider leans forward and touches her neck and she quiets down. She trots to the end of the ring and breaks into an easy canter as she swings toward the first jump. She is over, clean and neat. She has less to spare than the gray, but enough, and her action looks smoother. If she can only last! The other jumps are but a repetition of the first. I notice that she swings a little on the shadowed jump and does not take it quite straight, but she makes a perfect jump and lands in her stride. She evidently has figured out how to do it. She returns to her place. I put my glasses on her leg. It is motionless and she stands at ease. The others follow and the judges go into a huddle. Soon rider after rider is dismissed, and with them, as they leave the ring, go the hopes and the ambitions of many of the spectators. This weeding-out process is painful and I dread lest the mare go with them. But she docs not, and neither do the gray and one other.

There is another long consultation. It is decided that the mare and the gray must make another circuit to aid in the final judgment. I had not counted on this. I am not pleased. The mare did perfectly, but to add another trip over the jumps might be too much for her. The gray goes first. There is just a suggestion of impatience in the air of the rider as he sets out. It is as if to say, ‘Why all this bother? I have the better horse. We will go through the thing if you want us to and we will show you just what we can do.’

He gathers his mount quickly, uses his heels, and dashes away. The gray had been restive during the wait and his rider’s mood quickly affects him. One of Patrick’s most sage bits of wisdom is the admonition never to telegraph to your horse how you feel unless you want him to feel the same. No creature is more sensitive to mood than a horse. He will at once recognize fear or impatience on the part of his rider. The result is that the gray shares the impatience of his rider. He rushes the first jump and takes off badly, but he steadies and clears the next four without accident. I think he is jumping a bit recklessly and there is a suggestion of swagger on the part of his rider. Five jumps are behind him, only one remains to clinch the victory. As it is approached the gray is urged to an extra effort. The rider is determined to finish in the grand manner. The gray thunders down the long side of the ring and flings himself at the last barrier. I cannot see what happens, but he evidently takes off too soon and is a bit short in his jump. The top rail falls as he hits it; he lands clumsily, trips, and recovers himself. It is a nice bit of footwork, but it unsettles his rider and he is thrown well forward on the gray’s neck. He is back in his seat in a moment and canters to take his place beside the mare with as great an air of confidence as he can muster.

I look at the mare and her rider. The young woman is gazing with studious abstraction at the mare’s ears and the marc is standing in her most statuesque ring posture. As far as they are concerned the incident might never have happened. They present a charming picture of polite indifference to the world in general and to the gray and his rider in particular. At a nod from the Master they move forward. There is a suggestion of grim determination on the face of the rider and the mare moves with an air of sweet docility. I know they are both prepared for the effort of their ring careers. As the mare breaks into a slow canter they move as one creature. The rider has melted into her saddle and moves not in unison with her mount but as part of her. The mare elects to go a bit farther than she did before to give her a longer start for the jump. Without a suggestion from hand or heel of her rider she turns when she wishes and slowly gathers speed. Gracefully she lifts herself over the first barrier, landing so lightly that she hardly seems to touch the tan bark and is off for t he next. When she reaches the fifth, with its treacherous shadow, she turns in towrnrd the wall and clears it with only a few inches to spare.

As she lands she falters for the fraction of a second and I see the rider shift slightly in her saddle. Whatever has happened, the mare recovers herself instantly and now asks for more bridle. The rider gives her her head and sits tight. The marc is now traveling on her own. There is one more jump directly in front of the judges and she elects to approach it in her own way. She is adjusting her stride and is taking her time. Suddenly she is ready. In a few steps she gathers speed. For a moment I fear that the temptation to finish in a blaze of glory may be too strong for both mare and rider. But the lesson of the gray’s mishap bears fruit and the mare comes up to the last jump with plenty of speed but easily and without excitement. She sails over it with a long, effortless jump and trots to the centre of the ring with an air of utter unconcern.

I have been leaning over the parapet before me at a perilous angle and I now sink back into my seat with a sense of relief. That is done. Whatever the judgment, there is now no chance of mishap and the game little mare has done her best. The final formalities are brief.

As soon as the mare returns to her place beside the gray she poses for the final inspection. She slowly extends herself into the posture which seems to be regarded as orthodox in the ring, for what obscure reason I could never understand. No equine creature ever stood so except in a show ring. It seems to me neither natural nor attractive. But the mare has done it so many times she needs no suggestion. The gray follows, but with repeated signals from toe and heel of his rider. When once posed, the mare does not move a hair. I look at her closely through my glasses. From my point of vantage there appears no tremor in that mistrusted leg. That hoof is a bit lower in the tanbark and she seems to press on it a trifle, but it is hard to tell. I see Patrick’s smiling face in the distance and he is talking volubly to a neighbor.

The judges in solemn procession leave the stand and make a deliberate circuit of the motionless horses. Keen eyes note every detail and whispered comments are exchanged. They return to the stand and one of them selects the rosettes, blue, red, and yellow. The Master takes them and a number is called. It is Number Nine and that is the numeral that adorns the arm of the mare’s rider. She moves forward and the rosette is placed on her bridle. It seems to me that she obligingly lowers her head to make it easy for the Master. Other ribbons have been placed beneath her delicate ear and she knows the technique. There is generous applause. The red goes to the gray and the yellow to the waiting third, a novice making her first appearance. A judge turns to the table and takes up the Brooks Cup. He carries it to the mare’s side and places it in the hands of her rider. He makes some laughing comment and strokes the mare’s neck. The band crashes into a stirring march and the three winners make a circuit of the ring, the mare leading.

Never have I seen her so beautiful, never before has she moved with such grace, never has she held her head so proudly or stepped more daintily. She tosses her head as she turns toward the gate and a fleck of foam clings to her sleek shoulder, accenting the lustrous black of her coat. The gate swings open and she disappears. I see Patrick’s head bobbing over the ring parapet as he runs to meet her. As I make my way to the reception room to offer congratulations to the owner I meet Bradley. He grasps my hand cordially.

‘Congratulations,’he says. ‘That’s a wonderful little mare you have. I wish I had one like her.’

‘Thanks,’ I answer, ’I am sorry you never will, because there is n’t another like her and there never will be.’

I decide that on the whole I like Bradley.

V

As soon as I reached home I hurried to the stable. Patrick was gazing through the grill of the mare’s box stall. She stood with her nose against the grating and they were exchanging confidences. She was covered in her cooler and her leg was freshly bandaged.

Patrick turned as I entered.

‘Well, she did it, sir,’ he said. ‘I thought she would. But she is through, sir. That leg is gone. It is time. She was dead lame before she was halfway home. I knew it. I saw it go. It was at that tricky jump in the shadow. She landed wrong and she twisted it. She covered it up, but I saw it. She did the last on her nerve — that was all she had left. Did you see her bury that foot in the tanbark when they looked her over? Not a quiver, but I know it hurt her. She landed the cup for the young lady, but she will never step right again. Game, I call it, sir — game. Ah, she’s the rare little mare.’

‘What can we do for her?’ I asked.

‘Pull her shoes and turn her out. She will be comfortable in a few days. If she does no work she will be well enough.’

And so the black mare went to her reward — a verdant hillside with good grass by day and shelter by night, long hours of reflection in the shade, and rest and constant care for the slightest ailment.

But I sometimes wonder what she thinks about. I fancy that she sometimes hears the band and sees the level tanbark with its white barriers, for she will often trot the length of her enclosure with all the style and beauty of her ring manner, still lithe and graceful and still concealing the stiffness in her leg, proud and game as ever.

And well may she be proud, for she can look back upon a life untouched by cowardice or guile, a life of service and affection, of loyalty and faith. I only hope that when Bradley and I — we have grown to be great friends of late and I owe the pleasure of it to the mare — when Bradley and I have reached the point where the world no longer wants or needs us, when we are old and nurse some hidden infirmity and our shoes are pulled and we are turned out, I trust then we shall find some pleasant pasture where we can be at peace. And may that peace be undisturbed by unpleasant recollections. We both entertain some doubts as to the exact color of the ribbon, if any, which may be awarded us in the final distribution, but there are a few years still to go, and we have at least the record of the mare to guide us.