“Of course, and that’s why you won’t do them. I saw some poor horses on the street yesterday. They were before a big carriage, as heavy, as heavy! And they had ugly straps to hold their poor heads up—this way! Till their throats ached so they couldn’t breathe, hardly. Not like you help them with a strap when they’re racing, so the wind won’t choke in their ‘pipes,’—’cause that isn’t bad, just for the little minute they have ’em so; but these were all crooked back, terr’ble, so they couldn’t see, only a little way up toward the sky. They had a mis’able action; ’cause they had ‘blinders’ on, besides, and all they dared to do was just step straight up an’ down, up an’ down, fear they’d hurt themselves. The coachman was lashing them to make them go,—’cause his carriage folks seemed in a hurry; an’ I should have laughed at him, if I hadn’t had to cry for them—the horses. I couldn’t help thinking ’bout ’em when I went to bed; an’ my father says ‘It’s ign’rant cruelty,’ an’ ‘if the folks understood horses’ feelings, like they’d ought to, why everybody’d be gladder.’”
“Humph! You’re a very close observer. And now, shall I lift you over the fence?”
“No, thank you. I’m going to walk once around the paddock with Diablo, and ’xplain to him ’bout our having to go, and our coming back to-morrow, an’ everything. You can bid him good-by, if you want to.”
“May I, indeed? How shall I do it?”
“Why—same’s folks. Same’s me. Say, ‘Good-morning, Diablo; pleased to make your ’quaintance,’ or anything nicey sounding an’ p’lite. He knows, Diablo does. An’ you want him brought up like a gentleman’s horse, don’t you? So he’ll understand when folks use good language, an’ not what Papa calls ‘ruffian talk.’ He knows, Diablo does. See here? See that fine head, broad as anything above the eyes? That’s ’cause it’s full of brains; an’ brains are where folks think an’ know things. If he hadn’t have had a good head, he wouldn’t have understood me so soon, first off. He looks as if he might be as clever as Tito, ’most.”
“Good-morning, Diablo. I am sincerely delighted to make friends with you,” said Judge Courtenay, very gravely, though with a twinkle in his eyes.
But Steenie did not care for the twinkle, only laughed in return; and, by her hand upon his face forcing the colt’s head down, she gently grasped his forelock and bent it still lower. “Bow p’litely, dear Diablo, ’cause you’d ought to.” Then she walked away as she had come, with her arm upon his shoulder, and his light leading-string held carelessly in her other hand.
The Judge climbed back over the paling, and, catching sight of Sutro’s exultant face, laughed and pulled out his watch. “Well, old fellow! You’re a pretty good prophet! Five minutes past time, that’s all.”
“Caramba! More than that since she brought him up to thee with the lariat round his nozzle, no?”
“Beaten—beaten! I give it up. But do you know, señor, that you have the honor to serve a very remarkable young person?”