“Well, as soon as they went into the stable, the mare left off feeding, and, turning round so as to face them, stood with her ears pricked up, gazing wildly at them. Wilford just glanced at her, and then leisurely divested himself of his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, turned up the wristbands of his shirt, and, taking the bridle from the groom, announced that he was ready. As soon as the door was open, Wilford fixed his eyes sternly on the mare, and walked towards her. To the surprise of every one the animal allowed him to approach quietly and pat her, without showing any symptoms of vice. Men began to exchange inquiring glances with each other, and those who had betted heavily against him trembled for their money; but Foxington, who was better acquainted with the animal, exclaimed, 'Wait a minute, he has not tried to touch her head yet'. Wilford now moved his hand forward along the neck, patting her, and speaking soothingly to her as he advanced; but, as he approached the head, she became impatient and fidgety, and when he attempted to take hold of the ear, in order to put on the bridle, she flung up her head, reared, and ran back a few steps, where she stood, shaking her mane and pawing the ground. After remaining in this position a few seconds, she suddenly laid back her ears, and, showing the whites of her eyes, ran at Wilford with her mouth wide open, and as soon as she got within distance made a ferocious bite at him. By springing on one side with great agility he just contrived to avoid it; then, dropping the bridle, he threw himself into a sparring attitude (you know he's a capital boxer), and, as the mare again ran at him, hit out, and, striking her just on a particular spot by the ear, brought her down like a bullock. As soon as she recovered her legs she renewed the attack, and Wilford received her as before, delivering his blow with the same coolness and precision. When the animal rose the second time she seemed partially stunned, and stood for a moment with her head hanging down and her ears drooping; but on Wilford's making a step towards her she again plunged forward, and attempted to seize him with her teeth. Once more did Wilford evade her bite by springing on one side, and seizing his opportunity succeeded in planting his hit, and, for the third time, felled her to the ground. When she again rose, however, she showed no disposition to renew the attack, but stood trembling violently, with the perspiration running down her sides. She now allowed Wilford to approach her, to stroke her head, pull her ears, and finally to put the bridle on, and lead her out, completely conquered; and so my Lord Foxington lost the best horse in his stables, and Wilford gained his bet, and added to his character for invincibility, which, by the way, he cared about much the most.”
“It was a bold deed,” returned I, as Archer concluded his story, “but one does not like a man the better for having done it; there seems to me a degree of wanton cruelty in punishing an animal so severely, unless he had been actually forced to do it. Public executioners may be necessary for the prevention of crime; but that is no reason why one need volunteer as an amateur hangman.”
“Everybody thought it an uncommonly plucky thing at the time, and there was an immense fuss made with him afterwards,” replied Archer.—“Why, Lawless, are you asleep? rouse up, man—to bed—to bed. Good-night, Fairlegh, you'll sleep all the better for knowing you are not to be shot at cock-crow.”
So saying, he took Lawless by the arm and marched him off, though, it must be confessed, his gait, as he descended the stairs, was somewhat unsteady.
CHAPTER XXIII — WHAT HARRY AND I FOUND WHEN WE LOST OUR WAY
“It is too true an evil—gone she is.
Unhappy girl! Ah! who would be a father!”
“Far in the lane a lonely hut he found,
No tenant ventured on th' unwholesome ground,
Here smokes his forge: he bares his sinewy arm,
And early strokes the sounding anvil warm;
Around his shop the steely sparkles Hew,
As for the steed he shaped the bending shoe.”
—Gay's Trivia.
“'Be who thou wilt... thou art in no danger from me, so
then tell me the meaning of this practice, and why thou drivest
thy trade in this mysterious fashion——'
“'Your horse is shod, and your farrier paid—what need you
cumber yourself further, than to mount and pursue your
journey?'”
—Kenilworth.
ON the afternoon of the day after Lawless's wine-party Oaklands and I were walking down to the stables where his horses were kept (he having, in pursuance of his plan for preventing my over-reading myself, beguiled me into a promise to ride with him), when we encountered Archer.
“I suppose you have heard the news par excellence,” said he, after we had shaken hands.
“No,” replied I, “what may it happen to be?”