“And from what stock, did you say?” the officer enquired.
Stone let him know all that was said concerning Morgan’s parentage. Then he continued:
“He has worked hard at the plow, most of his life, and he is not known in horse-books, but we Vermonters don’t take much interest in pedigrees. We say, ‘pretty is as pretty does’ and present merit is what we go by, Captain—not what his ancestors did!”
The Maryland gentleman laughed, seeing the point.
“Blood speaks for itself, right here,” Captain Dulaney said. “I will wager my new sword that this horse has thoroughbred blood! So you see your argument about pedigree does not hold!”
Morgan waved his tail slightly, in acknowledgment.
“I like the animal,” added the Captain, in his quiet, pleasant way. “I would mount him, sir.”
In ten minutes Morgan was accoutred in the military trappings and saddle of an officer of the United States Army. It was with a thrill that he felt the Captain throw his fine-dressed leg across his back and slip his cavalry-booted feet into the stirrups—all the while holding the reins in his masterful hand. A mutual confidence was awakened between the two that was to last always.
Morgan, feeling as young as he did ten years before, cantered smoothly off, side-stepping just enough to give his rider something to do.
Down the hill they went, the horse as sure-footed as a goat, feeling that he had never carried so dashing and gallant a rider nor so congenial a spirit, and right glad was he to respond to every gentle pressure of the bit or motion of the rein.