American fiction -- 20th century; Short stories, American -- Periodicals
"And we, Joey," he addressed a stable boy, "we're the undertakers.
Handsome corpse, what?" Cuddy stood in the centre of the barn floor
fastened to be groomed. He was handsome, built on the cleanest lines
of speed and strength, lean as an anatomical study, perfect for his
type. The depth of chest made his legs, neck, and head look fragile.
His face was unusually beautiful--the white-starred face which had
been before Geth's eyes as he had sat in Holly Park. His pricked
ears strained to hear, his eyes to see. The men working over him
were beneath his notice.
"Look at him," complained Joey, "he pays no more attention to us
than as if we weren't here." Cuddy usually kicked during grooming,
but his present indifference was more insulting.
"Huh!" said Willet. "he knows them sextons went to Break-Neck to
dig the grave for him. Don't yer, Devil? Say, Joey, look at him
listening like he was counting the number of spadefuls it takes to
make a horse's grave. He's thinking, old Cuddy is, and scheming what
he'd like to do. I wouldn't ride him from here to Break-Neck, not
for a thousand dollars." He began rapidly with the body brush on
Cuddy's powerful haunch, then burst out:
"He thinks he'll be good and we'll think he's hit the sawdust trail,
or perhaps he wants to look pretty in his coffin. Huh! Give me that
curry. You wash off his face a bit." Cuddy turned his aristocratic
face away from the wet cloth and blew tremulously. Joey tapped the
blazing star on his forehead.
"Right there," he explained to Willet, "but anyhow he's begun to
show his age." He pointed the muzzle which had the run forward look
of an old horse and to the pits above the eyes. The grooming was
finished but neither Gething came to the stable from the big house
nor the trench diggers from Break-Neck to say that their work was
done.
"Say, Joey," suggested Willet, "I'll do up his mane in red and
yellow worsteds, like he was going to be exhibited. Red and yellow
look well on a bay. You get to the paddock and see Frenchman hasn't
slipped his blanket while I fetch the worsteds from the office."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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