Read Online Secret of the Stallion by Bonnie Bryant - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bonnie Bryant
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welcoming. Lisa held out a hand. Pip came over for a pat. She obliged him happily.
’Ank slipped into the stall. He ran his hands over the horse expertly. He lifted each hoof and checked the feet for tenderness. There was no swelling on the legs. His feed bucket was empty, as it should be, and his hay and water showed that he’d been eating and drinking just the way any healthy horse would.
“Nothin’ wrong ’ere that I can see,” ’Ank said.
“What about his mouth?” Lisa asked. “He seemed to flinch every time I moved the reins.”
’Ank checked Pip’s mouth, but there were no sores that might explain his behavior. “But if he gave you trouble when you moved the reins, maybe we’d better look at his tack,” said ’Ank.
Enrico and Lisa followed him over to the tack area for the Dickens horses, and there they found the answer. There was a chart identifying the tack for each of the horses, and at Pip’s name it called for the bridle identified as “P”—presumably for Pip. The bridle hung on the hook marked with Pip’s name was “J.” It was a double bridle with a curb bit. The “P” bridle, hung on another hookaway from the rest of the tack, was a single bridle with a plain broken snaffle bit. A curb bit was tough on a horse’s mouth. A broken snaffle was a gentle bit, the right choice for a horse with a soft mouth that responded quickly to a gentle signal.
“That’s the answer, then,” Lisa said. “The lad made a mistake when he tacked up Pip.”
“ ’E shouldn’t ’ave made a mistake like that!” ’Ank grumbled. “These lads today …”
Lisa didn’t think there was much point in grumbling about the lads of today. The fact was that she was used to tacking up her own horse and if she had done it—as Max would have wanted her to—this wouldn’t have happened.
Lisa knew there was nothing wrong with a curb bit. They were absolutely appropriate for many horses. But they were much harsher than a snaffle, and if a horse was used to a snaffle, the sudden change to a curb bit would make him flinch.
“It’s okay, ’Ank,” she said, reassuring the old man. “Now we know what was wrong. There’s no damage to Pip’s mouth and I’ll be sure he’s got the right tack on tomorrow.” She took the “J” bridle and set it off to the side. The “P” bridle was hung where it belonged.
“Aye, Miss Lisa,” he said. “That you will, I’m sure of it.” He and Lisa each gave Pip a final good-night pat and they turned out the light at the stall. Then ’Ank led the way back to his desk.
“Every horse is different from every other,” ’Ank said,almost talking to himself. “It’s a mistake for a lad, or a lass, not to know that. The ones that do know their horses, now they are the ones that become fine riders.”
Lisa knew that was a compliment. It made her blush and she was glad that neither ’Ank nor Enrico could see that in the dark stable.
“Fine riders, I mean, like the old duke ’imself.”
“How would you know that?” Enrico asked.
“Father to son,” ’Ank said. “Father to son.”
“You mean your father—” Lisa began, but then she stopped herself. “No, the duke died more than three hundred years ago!”
“And it was my great, great, oh, Oi don’t know ’ow many ‘greats’ there should be there, but in my family, we call them all Gran. Still, it’s my Gran’s been lookin’ after the ’orses at Cummington since the time o’ William the Conqueror. And every father tells every son everything he knows.”
“You know about the duke?” Lisa asked. “The last one, I mean?”
“Aye, Miss Lisa, that I do,” he said. He settled back into his chair and nodded toward a nearby bench where Lisa and Enrico could sit.
A warm, familiar feeling swept over Lisa. It took her a second to identify it; then she knew. ’Ank was about to tell her and Enrico a story. It felt just like the times Mrs. Reg told stories to the riders at Pine Hollow. The
’Ank slipped into the stall. He ran his hands over the horse expertly. He lifted each hoof and checked the feet for tenderness. There was no swelling on the legs. His feed bucket was empty, as it should be, and his hay and water showed that he’d been eating and drinking just the way any healthy horse would.
“Nothin’ wrong ’ere that I can see,” ’Ank said.
“What about his mouth?” Lisa asked. “He seemed to flinch every time I moved the reins.”
’Ank checked Pip’s mouth, but there were no sores that might explain his behavior. “But if he gave you trouble when you moved the reins, maybe we’d better look at his tack,” said ’Ank.
Enrico and Lisa followed him over to the tack area for the Dickens horses, and there they found the answer. There was a chart identifying the tack for each of the horses, and at Pip’s name it called for the bridle identified as “P”—presumably for Pip. The bridle hung on the hook marked with Pip’s name was “J.” It was a double bridle with a curb bit. The “P” bridle, hung on another hookaway from the rest of the tack, was a single bridle with a plain broken snaffle bit. A curb bit was tough on a horse’s mouth. A broken snaffle was a gentle bit, the right choice for a horse with a soft mouth that responded quickly to a gentle signal.
“That’s the answer, then,” Lisa said. “The lad made a mistake when he tacked up Pip.”
“ ’E shouldn’t ’ave made a mistake like that!” ’Ank grumbled. “These lads today …”
Lisa didn’t think there was much point in grumbling about the lads of today. The fact was that she was used to tacking up her own horse and if she had done it—as Max would have wanted her to—this wouldn’t have happened.
Lisa knew there was nothing wrong with a curb bit. They were absolutely appropriate for many horses. But they were much harsher than a snaffle, and if a horse was used to a snaffle, the sudden change to a curb bit would make him flinch.
“It’s okay, ’Ank,” she said, reassuring the old man. “Now we know what was wrong. There’s no damage to Pip’s mouth and I’ll be sure he’s got the right tack on tomorrow.” She took the “J” bridle and set it off to the side. The “P” bridle was hung where it belonged.
“Aye, Miss Lisa,” he said. “That you will, I’m sure of it.” He and Lisa each gave Pip a final good-night pat and they turned out the light at the stall. Then ’Ank led the way back to his desk.
“Every horse is different from every other,” ’Ank said,almost talking to himself. “It’s a mistake for a lad, or a lass, not to know that. The ones that do know their horses, now they are the ones that become fine riders.”
Lisa knew that was a compliment. It made her blush and she was glad that neither ’Ank nor Enrico could see that in the dark stable.
“Fine riders, I mean, like the old duke ’imself.”
“How would you know that?” Enrico asked.
“Father to son,” ’Ank said. “Father to son.”
“You mean your father—” Lisa began, but then she stopped herself. “No, the duke died more than three hundred years ago!”
“And it was my great, great, oh, Oi don’t know ’ow many ‘greats’ there should be there, but in my family, we call them all Gran. Still, it’s my Gran’s been lookin’ after the ’orses at Cummington since the time o’ William the Conqueror. And every father tells every son everything he knows.”
“You know about the duke?” Lisa asked. “The last one, I mean?”
“Aye, Miss Lisa, that I do,” he said. He settled back into his chair and nodded toward a nearby bench where Lisa and Enrico could sit.
A warm, familiar feeling swept over Lisa. It took her a second to identify it; then she knew. ’Ank was about to tell her and Enrico a story. It felt just like the times Mrs. Reg told stories to the riders at Pine Hollow. The
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