THE HORSE YOU DON'T SEE NOW
Many years ago I was summoned to attend the couch of a dear relative believed to be in extremis. The messenger arrived at my club with a buggy, drawn by a dark bay horse. The distance to be driven to Toorak was under four miles—the road good. I have a dislike to being driven. Those who have handled the reins much in their time will understand the feeling. Taking them mechanically from the man, I drew the whip across the bay horse. The light touch sent him down Collins Street East, over Prince's Bridge, and through the toll-bar gate at an exceptionally rapid pace. This I did not remark at the time, being absorbed in sorrowful anticipation.
During the anxious week which followed I drove about the turn-out—a hired one—daily; now for this or that doctor, anon for nurse or attendant. Then the beloved sufferer commenced to amend, to recover; so that, without impropriety, my thoughts became imperceptibly disengaged from her, to concentrate themselves upon the dark bay horse. For that he was no ordinary livery-stable hack was evident to a judge. Imprimis, very fast. Had I not passed everything on the road, except a professional trotter, that had not, indeed, so much the best of it? Quiet, too. He would stand unwatched, though naturally impatient. He never tripped, never seemed to 'give' on the hard, blue metal; was staunch up-hill and steady down. Needed no whip, yet took it kindly, neither switching his tail angrily nor making as if ready to smash all and sundry, like ill-mannered horses. Utterly faultless did he seem. But experience in matters equine leads to distrust. Hired out per day from a livery-stable keeper, I could hardly believe that to be the case.
