“It didn't give him as much pain as the doctor gave Mr. Mortimer setting his arm,” declared Allis.
“But it was racing injured the horse's leg,” interposed Dolman.
“But your horse has got a ringbone, Mr. Dolman,” said Allis, “and a spavin, too. I've been looking at him. That's because you drive him too fast on hard roads. And his feet are contracted from neglect in shoeing. It's just cruel the way that poor old horse has been neglected. Race horses are much better taken care of.”
Allis's sudden onslaught switched Mr. Dolman from the aggressive to the defensive with great celerity.
“I confess I know very little about horses,” he was forced to apologize; then, with something of asperity, “the spiritual welfare of my congregation takes up my entire time.”
This rebuke caused a momentary silence, and Dolman, turning to Mortimer, said, “I hope you don't approve of racing, sir.”
Mortimer didn't, but a look from Allis's eyes inexplicably enough caused him to hedge very considerably in his reply.
“I know nothing about the race course,” he said, “but from what I see of the thoroughbreds I believe a man would have to be of very low order if their noble natures did not appeal to him. I think that courage, and honesty, and gentleness—they all seem to have it—must always have a good influence. Why, sir,” he continued, with a touch of excitement, “I think a man would be ashamed to feel that he was making himself lower than the horses he had to do with.”
Allis looked grateful. Even Porter turned half about in his chair, and gazed with a touch of wonderment at the battered young man who had substituted common sense for sophistical reasoning.
The reverend gentleman frowned. “It's not the horses at all,” he said, “it's the men who are disreputable.”