338 THE HORSE 



each time to see how Lurhne was getting on, though it was 

 not a very severe case. Often I was accompanied by a friend, 

 who might be curious to see an instance of lock-jaw, on one 

 occasion my companion being the late Lord Randolph 

 Churchill, who took a keen interest in everything pertaining 

 to horses, and was very fond of hunting. One morning 

 when I looked in the spasm had left the mare, and her 

 muscular system was completely relaxed, though she was 

 very weak, for it must be remembered that this attack 

 had followed a previous severe illness. Giving instructions 

 to the groom to get some groats for her, to boil them with 

 linseed, and to give the gruel to her in small quantities 

 several times during the day, I returned about five o'clock, 

 hoping to find the patient already better. The groom said 

 he had been to her about every two hours, and that she 

 seemed hungry at first, yet took very little ; but on going to 

 the box and feeling her pulse I was much alarmed, and saw 

 there was no time whatever to lose. On the near side there 

 was no pulse to be felt at all, while on the off side of the jaw 

 it could be very slightly discerned, though it appeared to be 

 getting momentarily both slower and fainter. Hurrying out 

 of the box, I called to the head man, Whelan, the once well- 

 known steeplechase jockey, and asked him to fetch some 

 whiskey, or any spirit, as quickly as possible, and after giving 

 one glance at the patient he ran out of the stable as fast as 

 he could. When discussing the case afterwards, Whelan 

 said he had fully thought the mare was done for, she seemed 

 to be at the very last gasp. Before the man returned, which 

 he really did very quickly, the mare sank down on the straw 

 apparently lifeless, and I thought she had gone down to die. 

 A well-bred horse fights it out to the last on its legs, except 

 in some diseases, and it is a bad sign when they lie down, 

 until there is a real turn for the better. There was some 

 gruel warming on the fire, so when Whelan arrived with a 

 half-pint of whiskey — he said less would be of no service — 

 we poured most of it into a bottle, filled it up with gruel, and 

 then, raising the mare's head, poured it down her throat as 

 she lay, though we were doubtful if she still possessed the 

 power of swallowing. To our relief she managed to get 



