Neither Herbert nor Monty knew Leslie well enough yet to understand this shirking of what they anticipated as a delightful task. Herbert had always been used to horses, and to fine ones. He loved his own Bucephalus, “back home,” as a dear friend, and looked forward to equal enjoyment in his new Blackamoor. With a little laugh he glanced at his young host and remarked:
“If I could help it I would never let another hand than mine touch that superb animal your father gave me. I hardly realize it yet, that it is truly my own. Why, I mean to train him to hurdles and high jumps, and when I go back east, this autumn, I’ll get myself proposed for the Highland Valley Hunt and—elected, if I can. I say, this is just a glorious chance to learn what I couldn’t at home, where houses are thick and farmers so stubborn they will object to one’s riding to hounds across their property. Howev—”
Monty interrupted, rather jealously:
“Oh! Quit that riding-to-hounds talk! I don’t know a thing about horses—except a saw-horse, that my mother insisted I should work on to reduce my—”
“‘Too, too solid flesh!’” broke in Leslie, laughing now and eager to watch the inexperienced “fat boy” make his first attempt at grooming a spirited beast.
But they were apt to break in thus upon each other’s remarks and no offence taken, and they were soon at the stables, where the girls were already assembled. One glance at his sister, covered from neck to foot by a brown gingham apron, reminded the fastidious Herbert that he was not fixed for dirty work, and he promptly begged a set of overalls from the nearest workman. The other lads followed his example, discarding jackets and vests, and beginning on their new tasks with a zeal that was almost too eager.
Even Leslie had done the same, willing for once to try this new game and see if there was any fun in it, as Herbert seemed to think. But his fingers shrank from handling the curry comb and brushes, absolutely new and clean though they were, and the best he accomplished was a roughening of Cæsar’s coat which disgusted him as well as the horse. At last, with a remark that “looking on was good enough for him,” he tossed his brushes aside and signalled an attendant to finish the task so badly begun. To his amazement, the hostler declined:
“Sorry, Master Leslie, but the Boss’s express orders was—have you do it yourself.”
Leslie’s eyes flashed. This was insubordination, indeed! Wasn’t he master at San Leon, now? Then Captain Lem drew near, to pick up the brush and explain in a matter-of-fact way:
“Best never rub anything—nor anybody—the wrong way, lad! This sorrel, here, ’d be sp’iled in next to no time if his hair ain’t smoothed the way natur’ meant it should lie. There. That’s how. See how it shines? And just look at Herbert and his black! By the great horned spoon! Them two is cronies a’ready—hand-in-glove, pals! And let me say right here an’ now; there ain’t no comfortabler love nowhere in this world than that ’twixt a horse and his owner—if the last has got sense. Now pitch in, sonny, and don’t let nobody get ahead of you on that line. No, siree! What’d the Boss say?” Then turning toward Monty, valiantly struggling with this new business, he inquired in real kindness: “Want me to lend a hand, youngster?”