anyway? Horse dealing?”
“No, carriage making,” Bill answered. He turned to look back at his brother and the shattered buggy. “That is, I
was
in it,” he added. “I’m not so sure now. Anyway, you come to my shop in Birdsboro and I’ll loan you a horse that you won’t need to use a whip on.”
“How do you know I won’t run out on you?” the peddler asked, grinning.
“You’re leavin’ too good a colt behind and you know I’m goin’ to straighten him out for you, that’s why.”
The peddler noted the look of cold command inthe other’s eyes. “Yes, I know that, all right. But don’t ask me how I know it.” He threw down the buggy whip and offered his hand good-naturedly. “My name’s Caspersen, Finn Caspersen.”
“Mine’s Bill Dailey. An’ over there is my kid brother Hank.”
“Want me to come along to your shop now?” the peddler asked a little nervously. He didn’t like being made to feel uneasy. He decided, too, that he wouldn’t want to come to blows with Bill Dailey despite his small size.
“Yes, we’ll hitch up my mare to your wagon and lead the colt,” Bill answered.
“What about your buggy?”
“I’ll come back for it later.”
“Maybe you can fix it up,” the big man suggested hesitantly.
“Maybe I can. But first I want to fix up your colt. He’s young an’ he’s had some bad times.” Bill Dailey’s eyes were half-closed as he squinted in the bright sun.
The peddler put on his fine coat slowly. “You sure got a heap of feelin’ for bad horses, Bill,” he said almost in awe. “You sure have.”
D RIED O SSELETS AND A PPLES
2
Early the next morning Bill took his brother into the apple orchard behind his carriage shop.
“Some horsemen say,” he told Hank, “that the best remedy for a balker like this colt is to take osselets, or small bones, from his legs, dry and grate them fine, then blow a thimbleful into his nostrils. He’ll then go off without trouble.” Bill picked several apples and put them into his pockets. “But I’ve had better luck with these,” he added, laughing.
“But will the dried osselets work?” Hank asked curiously.
“About like ammonia or red pepper. They’re only
temporary
aids. They disconcert a balker long enough to get him to start, but they don’t
keep
him goin’.”
A few minutes later Bill led the gray colt, wearing harness, down a back road. He stopped and started him repeatedly, each time rewarding the colt with a bit of apple and stroking his neck and head.
“There’s nothin’ wrong with this colt that somekindness won’t help,” he told Hank. “Winning a young horse’s confidence is always the first step. This fellow’s had too much abuse.”
Bill untied the long reins from the harness and for the first time stood a little to the side and rear of the colt. “Now, boy,” he said, tapping him lightly over the hips, “get along, an’ do the same thing you been doin’ with me up front.”
The colt moved off smartly and continued down the road until commanded to stop. He looked around and Bill gave him a bit of apple and a pat on the head. Then he was sent off once more until a touch of the reins brought him to another halt.
After repeating this many times with no trouble, Bill said, “Now for my wagon, Hank.”
They hitched up the colt and he immediately began to fret.
“He’s afraid of it,” Bill said, “an’ now we’ll try to find out why. If we do, curin’ him of balkin’ won’t be any trick at all.”
“The peddler had a big load,” Hank reminded his brother. “Maybe he was overloaded and the colt refused to pull.”
“Overloading wouldn’t cause fear,” Bill said.
“Maybe the crosspiece struck his legs once,” Hank suggested, trying his best to be helpful.
Bill Dailey slid a pole over the gray haunches but the colt neither kicked nor made any effort to break away. Finally Bill touched him with the reins. For a second the colt hesitated and Bill urged soothingly,
“No, carriage making,” Bill answered. He turned to look back at his brother and the shattered buggy. “That is, I
was
in it,” he added. “I’m not so sure now. Anyway, you come to my shop in Birdsboro and I’ll loan you a horse that you won’t need to use a whip on.”
“How do you know I won’t run out on you?” the peddler asked, grinning.
“You’re leavin’ too good a colt behind and you know I’m goin’ to straighten him out for you, that’s why.”
The peddler noted the look of cold command inthe other’s eyes. “Yes, I know that, all right. But don’t ask me how I know it.” He threw down the buggy whip and offered his hand good-naturedly. “My name’s Caspersen, Finn Caspersen.”
“Mine’s Bill Dailey. An’ over there is my kid brother Hank.”
“Want me to come along to your shop now?” the peddler asked a little nervously. He didn’t like being made to feel uneasy. He decided, too, that he wouldn’t want to come to blows with Bill Dailey despite his small size.
“Yes, we’ll hitch up my mare to your wagon and lead the colt,” Bill answered.
“What about your buggy?”
“I’ll come back for it later.”
“Maybe you can fix it up,” the big man suggested hesitantly.
“Maybe I can. But first I want to fix up your colt. He’s young an’ he’s had some bad times.” Bill Dailey’s eyes were half-closed as he squinted in the bright sun.
The peddler put on his fine coat slowly. “You sure got a heap of feelin’ for bad horses, Bill,” he said almost in awe. “You sure have.”
D RIED O SSELETS AND A PPLES
2
Early the next morning Bill took his brother into the apple orchard behind his carriage shop.
“Some horsemen say,” he told Hank, “that the best remedy for a balker like this colt is to take osselets, or small bones, from his legs, dry and grate them fine, then blow a thimbleful into his nostrils. He’ll then go off without trouble.” Bill picked several apples and put them into his pockets. “But I’ve had better luck with these,” he added, laughing.
“But will the dried osselets work?” Hank asked curiously.
“About like ammonia or red pepper. They’re only
temporary
aids. They disconcert a balker long enough to get him to start, but they don’t
keep
him goin’.”
A few minutes later Bill led the gray colt, wearing harness, down a back road. He stopped and started him repeatedly, each time rewarding the colt with a bit of apple and stroking his neck and head.
“There’s nothin’ wrong with this colt that somekindness won’t help,” he told Hank. “Winning a young horse’s confidence is always the first step. This fellow’s had too much abuse.”
Bill untied the long reins from the harness and for the first time stood a little to the side and rear of the colt. “Now, boy,” he said, tapping him lightly over the hips, “get along, an’ do the same thing you been doin’ with me up front.”
The colt moved off smartly and continued down the road until commanded to stop. He looked around and Bill gave him a bit of apple and a pat on the head. Then he was sent off once more until a touch of the reins brought him to another halt.
After repeating this many times with no trouble, Bill said, “Now for my wagon, Hank.”
They hitched up the colt and he immediately began to fret.
“He’s afraid of it,” Bill said, “an’ now we’ll try to find out why. If we do, curin’ him of balkin’ won’t be any trick at all.”
“The peddler had a big load,” Hank reminded his brother. “Maybe he was overloaded and the colt refused to pull.”
“Overloading wouldn’t cause fear,” Bill said.
“Maybe the crosspiece struck his legs once,” Hank suggested, trying his best to be helpful.
Bill Dailey slid a pole over the gray haunches but the colt neither kicked nor made any effort to break away. Finally Bill touched him with the reins. For a second the colt hesitated and Bill urged soothingly,
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