“Pneumatic tires, my dear,” answered her husband glibly.
“And how rhythmical the horse’s hoof-beats are!”
“An evidence of blood, my darling. I know this horse’s pedigree: by Carpenter out of Chestnut—”
“Oh, don’t. I never cared for those long genealogies. Whether he has blood or not, he is certainly the smoothest traveller I ever saw.”
They had been skilfully guided along the winding path that led to the highway by the chauffeur, who, although he was a James, was not the James who generally worked in the stable, but a James hired at the office of the company in order that he might break in the local James.
After they reached the road the way for a mile or more was clear and straight, and they met with no teams. The horse was wonderfully lifelike, except in his action, or rather lack of action, for his forefeet were eternally in an attitude of rest. The hind legs rose and fell with the inequalities of the road, and his mane and tail waved in the breeze like the real horsehair that they were.
“This is the poetry of motion,” said Mrs. Tucker. “I don’t believe you’ll ever find an automobile that can run like this.”
“I’ll admit that I wouldn’t wish one to go better. Are you all right back there, James?”
“All right, sir.”
“Why, how queer James’ voice sounds! I never noticed that squeak in it before.”