CHAPTER XII
THE PARABLE OF A HUMBLE BEAST OF BURDEN AND
OF LILIES THAT TOIL NOT
BREAKFAST, with Cecilia to preside, was bright as summer sunrise. Little Cecilia had her bouquet of dewy roses for father and friend. The whiff of coffee perfume was like a gale of Araby the blest. Just as the meal was ended, a servant announced that Mr. Bishop was outside with a horse. They sallied forth to inspect it.
Mr. Bishop was a flashy man, not quite jockey, not quite farmer, rather of the squireen type. He had associated enough with gentlemen to know how they permit themselves to slang and swear. He was, however, better than a gentleman jockey, who, like a gentleman stool-pigeon, is doubly dangerous. But no jockey could say more for the black horse than was evident in every bend of his body, in every tense muscle and chord of the delicate limbs.
“He is high-couraged, sir,” said Bishop, “and has played the devil with some folks. You seem to know how to handle a horse.”
Waddy ran his hand over the legs, as free from knots as a Malacca joint; then standing at his head, he let the colt nibble at a bit of moist biscuit and took the opportunity quietly to look at his mouth.
“He seems all right,” he said, at last. “Move him a little, if you please.”
Bishop started him off. The stride and spring were smooth as a raw oyster; both told of speed and power.
“There’s no mistake about him,” said Bishop, bringing him back. “I meant to have kept him to ride myself, but times is gittin’ hard [i. e., brandy has gone up]. Besides, my daughter, Sally, is gittin’ sicker an’ I’ll have to go south with her next winter and shan’t need no horse, an’ ’ll want the rocks. Mr. Tootler knows the horse an’ kin tell you what he did when we tried him on the course. If you buy him an’ ’ll keep dark, you’ll be mighty apt to take ’em down that tries to run with you.”
“I’ll take him,” said Ira, without more parley. “Tootler, will you give Mr. Bishop your check?”