"Now keep the boa round you, Miss Effie," said Mrs. Driscoll; "and don't be gettin' on the cliffs, Moriarty, but keep in the shelter of the trees, and go aisy with her. Be sure, whatever you do, to keep clear of them cliffs."
Moriarty hit the donkey a blow on the ribs with his blackthorn stick just as a drummer strikes a drum, with somewhat of the same result as to sound, and the vehicle started.
Mr. French had trained a good many winners, and Moriarty was Mr. French's factotum in stable matters; what Moriarty did not know about horses would be scarcely worth mentioning.
Very few men know the true inwardness of a horse—what he can do under these circumstances and under those, his spirit, his reserve force, his genius.
A horse is much more than an animal on four legs. Legs are the least things that win a race, though essential enough, no doubt. It is the soul and spirit of the beast that brings the winner along the last laps of the Rowley Mile, that strews the field behind at Tattenham Corner, that, with one supreme effort, gains victory at the winning-post by a neck.
It is this intuitive knowledge of the psychology of a horse that makes a great trainer or a great jockey.
Moriarty was possessed of this knowledge, but he was possessed of many other qualities as well. He could turn his hand to anything—rabbit catching, rearing pheasants, snaring birds, doctoring dogs, carpentry.
"Moriarty!" said Miss French, when they were out of earshot of the house.
"Yes, miss," said Moriarty.