It was n't because Dad was a racing man or subject to turf
hallucinations in any way that he thought of preparing Bess for the
meeting. We sadly needed those five pounds, and, as Dad put it, if the
mare could only win, it would be an easier and much quicker way of making
a bit of money than waiting for a crop to grow.
Bess was hobbled and put into a two-acre paddock near the house. We put
her there because of her wisdom. She was a chestnut, full of villainy, an
absolutely incorrigible old rogue. If at any time she was wanted when in
the grass paddock, it required the lot of us from Dad down to yard her, as
well as the dogs, and every other dog in the neighbourhood. Not that she
had any brumby element in her--she would have been easier to yard if she
had--but she would drive steadily enough, alone or with other horses,
until she saw the yard, when she would turn and deliberately walk away.
If we walked to head her she beat us by half a length; if we ran she ran,
and stopped when we stopped. That was the aggravating part of her! When
it was only to go to the store or the post-office that we wanted her, we
could have walked there and back a dozen times before we could run her
down; but, somehow, we generally preferred to work hard catching her
rather than walk.
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