SPANGLE. 69 



On the morning after my arrival in Irishtown, I 

 saw my first gallop. Oiney (no one, not even his chil- 

 dren ever dreamed of calling him by any other name) 

 was up and out before the peep of day. I heard him 

 talking in the yard, and as I looked out of the window 

 I saw him ride by on a gray horse. The gray had 

 nothing on him but a rope halter, the shank of which 

 was looped through his mouth. As I recall the horse 

 he was a ragged built gelding with a big head, 

 long, slim ears that almost touched at the tips, a thin 

 neck and a capital pair of shoulders for a galloper. 

 His middle piece was rather light for the spread of his 

 quarters, while he walked with that pointed, dainty 

 step that stamped him in my mind a thoroughbred. 

 As Oiney disappeared in a bank of fog which hung low 

 over the end of the lane, I slipped into my clothes and 

 ran out into the yard, where I met Terry, the boy I had 

 slept with. He told me that Oiney had taken the gray 

 out for a warming up gallop arid that when he came 

 in they were going to work him with Spangle. 

 Spangle was a big, brown horse with a ragged white 

 strip running over his nose. He was standing with 

 his head over the half door of a box stall, and I noticed 

 that he pricked up his ears as Terry mentioned his 

 name. 



"Did you see that, Larry?" said Terry. "Oh, but 

 they are a knowing lot. Oiney says that a galloping 

 horse can do everything but talk and we do that for 

 them. And do you know, I believe it. It would make 

 your heart rattle to see that one go over a sod bank or 

 a fence. All you have to do is to speak to him and he 

 is up and over. Darlin's no name for him. But he's 

 sold and will be off to the hurdles and steeple chases 



