The Horse Tamer (11 page)

Farther on they passed the new Metropolitan Opera House and then turned east, going back to Fifth
Avenue. At 59th Street they came to the southern boundary of Central Park and felt more at home at once. Eagerly Bill drove his horses into the wooded area. The carriage roads were perfect and there were miles of bridle trails alongside. Many women were riding horseback and this surprised Bill and Hank very much, for such a thing was never done in Pennsylvania.

They found out, too, that here in the park the carriage parade was the most fashionable and exciting of all. They saw elegant victorias carrying ladies even more elegant than those they had seen before, with tiny parasols delicately poised over their heads. They saw barouches, roomier and more stately than the victorias. Light, swift phaetons were to be seen, too, some even driven by young ladies with grooms stolidly perched on
the back seat to help in case of trouble. There were dog carts as well. Bill had built many of these but had never liked them because of the back-to-back seating arrangement. And always part of the scene were the carriages of the conservative elderly dowagers taking the air in Central Park. These women remained concealed in stately broughams, their coachmen and footmen soberly liveried, and their horses always huge, fat and slow.

Never had Bill Dailey been so impressed as by this passing scene. But the greatest shock of all came when a woman went by, sitting on the box seat of a coach like his own and skillfully driving four horses.

“Now I’ve seen everything!” he told Hank.

“No, you haven’t,” his brother answered. “Look what’s coming up behind us.”

Bill Dailey turned just in time to see several horses whip by, each pulling a light two-wheeled sulky. There was nothing showy about these horses. They were bred and built for speed and endurance. Their bodies were long, lanky and bony and their legs moved with piston-like precision in a remarkably fast trot. They disappeared quickly up the path, their drivers sitting motionless with the reins in their hands.

“Racehorses,” Bill explained, “on their way to Harlem Lane, I suppose. I was told it’s at the other end of Central Park. They’ve got the world’s fastest trotter up there. Goes a mile in two minutes seventeen and a half seconds.”

“No!” Hank gasped. “That’s flying!”

“It’s fashionable to own fast horses now, though it wasn’t years ago,” Bill said.

“Y’mean fast horses are no longer a sign of a fast man?”

“That’s right,” and Bill grinned.

When they left the park Bill stopped the carriage and, leaning out, asked a man on the street, “Sir, can you tell me where to find Finn Caspersen?”

“Finn what?”

“Finn Caspersen,” Bill said loudly.

“What’s that?” the stranger wanted to know.

“It’s the name of a man I’m trying to find. He’s appearing in an amphi-amph … a big arena here.”

“Never heard of him.”

Bill Dailey clucked to his horses. “Thanks, anyway,” he said.

“Say there!” someone called. “You looking for Finn Caspersen? Is that the name you just asked for?”

A man in a rakish phaeton behind a pair of sparkling bays pulled up alongside. “Yes,” Bill Dailey said eagerly. “Do you know him?”

“The Boss Horse-Tamer? Is that the one?”

Bill Dailey did not reply. He could not bring himself to accept this description of Finn. Hank nodded for him.

The man went on, “You’re too late. You won’t find him here.”

“Oh,” Bill said, certain that the New York City horsemen had run Finn Caspersen out of town.

“He’s in Europe,” the man went on. “Got an invitation to tame a horse before the Queen of England! He’s good, he is! Sailed over a week ago. Too bad you missed him. He puts on a show that’s worth seeing.”

The man paused, startled by the stunned look on Bill Dailey’s face. “You don’t have to look so disappointed as all that, mister. He’ll be back soon, the papers say. Maybe you can find out the date by going over to the Fifty-ninth Street Amphitheater. His stable manager’s there. You can’t miss the place. Just keep going across town and you’ll run right into it.”

Bill Dailey picked up his reins. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Thank you very much.”

“Don’t mention it. I know how you feel. It’s magic what he does with horses, something to see!”

After a few minutes’ driving Hank asked his brother, “How do you account for his success here, Bill? They seem to be good horsemen.”

“Fine horses and carriages don’t necessarily make fine horsemen, an’ if New Yorkers have accepted Finn
on the little he knows about horse management, I’m stickin’ around myself.”

The 59th Street Amphitheater was the largest building in which Bill and Hank had ever found themselves. The ring was several hundred feet in diameter and towering above it was tier after tier of wooden seats. The stable to the rear held many stalls, most of which were occupied.

They had no trouble finding Finn Caspersen’s manager, for his particular section of the stable carried a large poster over the corridor.

“Are all these horses Mr. Caspersen’s?” Bill Dailey asked. The stable manager had Finn’s height and heft. There was no doubt in Bill’s mind that between the two of them they would be formidable opposition for almost any horse, especially if they were not particular as to the methods they used.

“Some of ’em,” the man replied cagily in answer to the question. “Some belong to his clients.”

“Clients?” Bill repeated.

“People he’s tamin’ ’em for.”

“Oh.”

“You a friend of Mr. Caspersen’s?”

“We’ve worked together,” Bill admitted.

“Horse-tamin’?”

Bill Dailey nodded.

“What’s your name?” the stable manager asked.

“Dailey … Bill Dailey.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve heard him mention workin’ with you. Guess you know what this is all about then,” he added, taking Bill into his confidence.

Bill nodded again, more encouragingly this time.

“He’ll be sorry he missed you,” the burly man said. “You see, he made up his mind to go to England in pretty much of a hurry. This Lord Oliver wrote to him about a horse called Panic, a mean one. At first Finn turned him down but then Mr. Dancer heard about it.… ”

“Mr. Dancer?” Bill asked. “I don’t believe I know him.”

“I guess you wouldn’t at that. He’s Finn’s new backer. He put up the money to get him started in New York. Anyway, when he heard Lord Oliver wanted Panic tamed before the Queen of England he insisted that they go if only for the publicity.”

“I can understand that … knowing Finn,” Bill said. “I can also understand why he didn’t want to take on such a horse
alone.
”

“Yeah,” the other agreed knowingly. He turned suddenly to a nearby stall where an ugly brown horse was kicking savagely against the sides. “Quiet!” he shouted angrily.

“Is that horse to be driven by Finn?” Bill asked.

The stable manager grinned. “Him? Finn tames him ’bout twice a week. He’s part of the act.”

“How long do you work on him before he’s exhibited?” Bill asked without meeting the other’s eyes.

“Twenty-four hours without food or water usually
does it. Leaves enough fire in him to put on a good show without makin’ it too hard for Finn to get control. He’s a good subject, all right. I guess you an’ Finn never had one as good as him. He’s real ugly-lookin’, scares the daylights out of people.”

Bill Dailey turned away. “No, we didn’t have any like him,” he replied. “C’mon, Hank.”

“I’ll tell Finn you were here,” the stable manager called after them.

“I’ll tell him myself,” Bill answered. “I’m stickin’ around.”

That same week Bill Dailey rented a small livery stable on 61st Street. He announced to the public through the newspapers that he was prepared to help owners in “the education of their horses.” He offered no extraordinary tricks and did not claim himself to be the “World’s Greatest Horse-Tamer.” Modestly he stated that although he had no more special fitness for this work than most people, having spent much time with horses he had gotten to know their ways and temperament. He could teach owners how best to get along with their horses and make them their friends.

For the first time in Bill Dailey’s career there was little response to his offer of help. This could have been due either to his complete lack of showmanship or to a feeling, on the part of the people of New York City, that they had nothing more to learn from professed horse-tamers. The few who did employ him had horses
with simple vices resulting from poor management. Bill had little trouble correcting them and they came and went without fanfare.

The New York
Standard
said of his work, “Professor Dailey spends more time educating owners than their horses.” Such a statement did not bring more owners knocking on his door, for it seemed that New York horsemen did not like to be taught publicly.

At the end of two weeks Bill said, “I guess New York’s not for us, Hank.”

“Folks here don’t want to be taught,” his brother agreed. “They want entertainment.”

“Maybe so. At least most of ’em seem to think there’s no controlling a bad horse unless you have some magical powers.”

“We’re farm people,” Hank said. “Let’s go back to those who really
want
your help and need it.”

“No, I’m stickin’ around to see Finn.”

“What good is it going to do even if you can expose him for what he is?”

“It might help some horses,” Bill replied quietly.

“No one will believe you,” his brother said. “He’s too popular.”

“In a way that’s why intelligent horsemen aren’t coming to us now with their problem horses. They’ve known too many men like Finn Caspersen. They’re scared to trust a good horse to us for treatment. But some people might listen. And if I could prove to ’em …” His voice drifted off and his eyes were half-closed in his planning.

The next day the newspapers carried a glowing account of Finn Caspersen’s conquest of Panic in England.

As Bill said, it sounded exactly as if Finn had written the article himself.

PANIC TAMED

“That’s awfully hard to believe,” Hank told his brother.

“I don’t believe it,” Bill said thoughtfully, “not the part about Finn walkin’ into the stall and changing Panic the way it says he did, anyway. I wonder what he’s going to do next.”

“Something pretty spectacular,” Hank prophesied. “You can bet your life on that.”