He then showed her that on the half-mile track there were quarter-mile posts, and also eighth of a mile posts at the ends of the "straights"; the track was two "straights," of an eighth, and two turns of an eighth of a mile at each end.
"A horse's utmost speed for an eighth can thus be tested," said Rensslaer. "It is never advisable to put a horse at his utmost limit for more than an eighth."
Excusing himself for a brief minute, Gay next saw him in enormous goggles, bunched up on a slender sulky weighing about twenty-eight pounds, swinging round curves behind a Trotter that did half a mile in about a minute or so, and yet never broke into a gallop, and Gay realised that not so much in his Trotters themselves, as in the masterly driving of them, Rensslaer's pleasure consisted. He held his arms differently—he drove differently to anyone she had seen before, in its essence his was the same deep joy that Chris found in the riding at which he excelled.
Her heart warmed to him as she thought of how he had spared her the humiliation of knowing that Mackrell and she had been playing at a bad make-believe all the time, that the difference between their horses and Rensslaer's was, that his had quality, shape, and soundness—they looked like well-bred chargers, carried themselves with perfect balance, their hind legs well under them, stopping at a word without any pulling or fighting, and when the mile was finished, standing quite still. The sort of horse to which she and Carlton were accustomed, were mostly unsound old screws which had a fast record in America many years before, but having broken down, or being otherwise cheap, had been bought and patched up, then raced in England.
At first they had horrified Gay, these poor old raw-boned pacers with bent knees and hobbles, pulling all on one rein, with any amount of appliances to enable the man who was pulling for dear life to be able to hold them, or else little rats of Iceland ponies shuffling along, and only fit to be seen in a coster's barrow.
"And to think," cried Gay, in tragic tones, "that Carlton and I fancied ourselves—our trotters, I mean!"
"Of course," said Rensslaer, "although speed is the first essential, I will have no horse which is not absolutely sound, has not good manners, and does not have to wear boots (except as a precaution against accident when racing), and a light mouth."
Gay nodded. She had for the first time discovered how deceptive the long, raking stride of a record trotter is, for without appearing to move fast, he is yet making phenomenal time on the track, as drawing the light, four-wheeled racing wagon with rubber-tyred bicycle wheels, he glides smoothly along.
Then one by one, or in pairs, the finest animals in the stables were shown. Yet with so little effort did horse after horse, team after team, draw up under the trees in the background, and succeed each other, that they only blended with the beauty of the landscape, did not disturb it, and Gay presently gave a great sigh of delight.
"Oh," she said, "it's too much! I'd like the whole world to enjoy it—it's too good for poor little me!"