City Boy (22 page)

“Ah, yes.” Mr. Gauss closed the account book. “Does it look like a good horse?”

“Nope.”

At this reply Mr. Gauss might have been expected to dismiss the matter. He didn't, though. He nodded with satisfaction, and pushed himself out of the easy chair.

“Why? What's wrong with it?”

“Dunno. But it don't look good,” said Elmer, and went away.

Mr. Gauss walked to the camp gate behind the guest house. He made a picturesque figure: flapping straw sandals, bare thin legs burned pink by the sun, khaki-colored shorts stretched over his wide, round stomach and wider, rounder stem, green sun glasses, and peeling bald head. Mr. Gauss never became tan and never looked in the least countrified, no matter how he varied his costume. Had he been found unconscious and naked in a forest, he would have been identified at once as a New York City school principal who owned a summer camp.

A Negro was standing at the gate, holding a rope which was affixed to the bridle of a horse. The horse, a rusty black creature, was cropping grass.

“I'm Mr. Gauss,” said the camp owner. “Is that the animal for sale?”

“Yas, suh.”

“Hmm. Is he a good horse?”

“No, suh.”

Mr. Gauss, somewhat taken aback at such frankness, regarded the animal critically. He certainly did not look like a good horse. He had a swollen belly, spindly legs, a queerly stretched neck, and a long, sad, gnarled face.

“Why do you come to me with a horse that isn't good?”

“He cheap, suh.”

“How cheap?”

“Five dollars, suh.”

Even Mr. Gauss, bargain hunter that he was, was staggered.

“Five dollars for a
horse?
”

“Yas, suh.”

Mr. Gauss looked again at the beast. It was obviously alive, and, even dead, could hardly be worth less than five dollars.

“Where did you get him?”

“He ain't mine, suh. He b'long Camp Arcadia. Ah wuk in de stable dah.”

Camp Arcadia was a summer place for adults near by, and Mr. Gauss was slightly acquainted with the proprietor.

“I see. How old is this horse?”

“Dunno.”

“What's his name?”

“Clevuh Sam, suh.”

The camp owner glanced askance at the animal that bore this strange, slightly ominous name. The horse, having eaten bare the ground around the Negro, began devouring a clump of poison ivy near the gate. Mr. Gauss was troubled, but he noticed that the Negro saw the act and made no move to stop it.

“He's eating poison ivy.”

“Yas, suh. He hungry.”

“When was he fed last?”

“Don' matter none, suh. Clevuh Sam he just hungry.”

“Wait here, please.”

Mr. Gauss flapped his way back to the guest house and telephoned the proprietor of Camp Arcadia, a Mr. Zasi.

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Zasi to his inquiry, “how are you, Gauss? Do you want the horse?”

“I'd like to ask you a question or two about him, if you don't mind.”

“I'm rather busy, but go ahead.”

“Is he broken to the saddle?”

“Of course. That's what you advertised for.”

“Gentle?”

“I guarantee he won't hurt anybody.”

“Sick?”

“Don't make me laugh. That horse'll outlive you and me.”

“How old is he?”

“I don't know. Old.”

“Why is he called Clever Sam?”

There was a slight hesitation before Mr. Zasi answered. “Well, I think you'll find he
is
pretty clever.”

Somehow this answer did not reassure Mr. Gauss.

“In what way is he clever?”

“Look, Gauss, this whole deal means very little to me,” said the other camp owner irritably. “I'm not going to spend the day on the telephone discussing a five-dollar transaction. If you don't want the horse, send him back. His carcass would be worth more than the price.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Just routine inquiries, you understand.”

“I understand. Good-by.”

On the way back to the gate, Mr. Gauss puzzled and puzzled over a possible catch in the bargain, and could detect none. So, with an indefinable misgiving, he counted out five single bills to the Negro and was handed the rope that symbolized possession of Clever Sam. The Negro heaved a happy sigh.

“Thank you, suh. Good-by, you rusty ol'——,” he said, slapping the horse on the rump and using an extremely unprintable word. And he ambled off down the road, alternately whistling and laughing.

In view of these suspicious proceedings, Mr. Gauss was prepared for anything on the part of Clever Sam. Very cautiously he tugged at the rope. “Come on, Clever Sam, into the stable with you,” he said.

To his amazement, the horse raised his head and followed him like a lamb to the barn.

This book is in no sense a mystery story, so it should be said now that the reason for the absurd price of the horse was simply the tender-heartedness of Mr. Zasi's wife. The owner of Camp Arcadia wanted to be rid of the beast for reasons which will soon be evident, but his lady, who formed warm attachments for all four-footed creatures, would accept no solution which involved the slaying or ill treatment of Clever Sam. He had therefore boarded in Mr. Zasi's stable, an unwanted guest, for a year. Mr. Gauss's advertisement was a lucky opportunity.

The campers had their first inkling of the arrival of a horse when Uncle Sandy strode into Bunk Thirteen in the evening during letter-writing period.

“Say, Uncle Sid,” he said, sitting on Ted's cot to a screech of protesting metal, “what do you know about horses?”

“Horses?” said Uncle Sid mildly. He looked up from the score of
The Mikado,
which he had been cutting down for performance in twenty minutes.

“Yes, horses. Ever done any riding?”

“As a matter of fact,” Uncle Sid answered with a modest smile, “quite a bit. I seldom miss my Sunday morning canter in Central Park in the spring and fall. Of course I don't do jumps—”

“Well, that won't be necessary. Will you take Uncle Irish's bunk and your own in a riding class tomorrow? We've just gotten a horse.”

The boys jumped and cheered.

“Hey, Uncle Sandy, is it a good horse?” said Ted.

Uncle Sandy gave him a genial wink that meant exactly nothing.

“Why, I'll be happy to,” said Uncle Sid, and so it was decided.

Quickly the word of the renewal of riding spread through the camp, and it was the general opinion that somebody should sneak up to the stable at once and inspect the new steed. However, a marshmallow roast was to take place after letter writing, and the marshmallow supply was known to be limited. Some boys claimed they had found the fingerprints of Mr. Gauss on marshmallows at previous roasts, proving that he counted every one. Nobody would risk missing his marshmallows, and so Clever Sam was not seen that night.

Next morning at the parade ground Uncle Sandy announced, “Bunks Twelve and Thirteen”—dramatic pause—“horseback riding!” This brought forth a cheer, partly derisive and partly genuine, from the campers. When the boys of the two bunks wended up the hill a few minutes later, led by Uncle Sid in a handsomely tailored riding habit, there was no denying that they were envied.

They came upon Clever Sam tethered in the middle of a weedy clearing that bore obscure traces of having once been a riding ring. A sad ruin of gray boards in one comer suggested a jumping hurdle in the way that a small skeleton on the road suggests a cat; there is no resemblance, yet only the dissolution of the one could produce the other. There was also a belt of weeds around the edge of the clearing slightly different in size and color from the rest—the remains of the trotting path.

Clever Sam had eaten away the greenery close to the tether and was moving slowly in a widening circle, cropping as he went. A saddle and bridle were on him. Elmer Bean sat on a fence at the far side of the clearing, chewing a wooden match and watching the horse absently.

“Hey, Elmer!” shouted Ted as the riding party approached the ring. “Is he a good horse?”

The handy man looked at Ted, but said nothing. He eased himself off the fence, strolled to the animal, and untethered him. Clever Sam kept munching.

“All ready for you, mister,” said the handy man to Uncle Sid.

The music counselor looked Clever Sam over with a wry face. He had not seen such a decrepit, queerly shaped horse before. His experience in horseflesh, to tell the truth, was not wide, being limited to polite Sunday trots along city bridle paths in the company of a lady music teacher toward whom he was lovingly inclined, but who thought Uncle Sid too fat for romance. She had persuaded him to take up riding, and he had grown rather proud of his horsemanship. The stables near Central Park, however, housed glossy, pretty beasts; a camel would have resembled them as much as Clever Sam did. He was a long-faced quadruped, and equipped to be ridden on; that was the extent of the similarity.

“Have you—have you been on him?” he inquired of the handy man.

“That ain't my job, mister, that's yours,” said Elmer Bean. “You got him now. His name's Clever Sam.” He passed the reins into Uncle Sid's hands, walked off, and hoisted himself up on the fence again to watch what would follow.

The music counselor took a deep breath and vaulted ponderously but neatly onto the horse's back. Clever Sam took no notice whatever of the circumstance, and continued to feed, his neck stretching here and there for tasty purple thistles.

“Ride 'im, Uncle Sid,” came a voice from a group of breathless boys—a voice sounding very much like Lennie's.

“All right, Clever Sam, let's go!” cried Uncle Sid heartily. He gave the animal the sort of light kick in the ribs to which the well-trained, well-fed young horses in Central Park responded. Clever Sam was of a different school. He ignored Uncle Sid with majestic indifference, and grazed on. Not knowing quite what to do about a horse whose neck seemed to slant permanently downward, Uncle Sid braced himself against the stirrups, gave a tremendous heave on the reins, and pulled the horse's head up into a normal position.

“Tha-a-at's better,” he said. “Now, giddyap!” And he relaxed his hold upon the reins. The horse's head dropped to the ground again like a dead weight, and the yellow teeth resumed a methodical massacre of weeds.

“Say, haven't you fed this horse?” called the counselor angrily to Elmer Bean.

“Mister, that horse been eatin' grass since dawn. I ain't seen his head above his knees but just that once when you hauled it up.”

“Give me a stick, someone!” called Uncle Sid to the boys. Much scrambling ensued, and Herbie came up with a broken broom handle. He handed it to the counselor at arm's length and scuttled out of range. Uncle Sid flailed away at Clever Sam's flanks, making dry, thudding sounds as though he were beating a carpet.

The horse ate placidly.

Thoroughly enraged, Uncle Sid reached forward and hit his mount over the head with the broom handle.

For the first time, Clever Sam showed an awareness of his rider's existence. He raised his head and looked around inquiringly at Uncle Sid. Then he fell over on his left side and gave vent to a series of horrible groans, kicking his long skinny shanks back and forth. In great alarm the counselor disentangled himself from the stirrups, wriggled his leg out from under the horse, and sprang free. As soon as he was gone Clever Sam stopped groaning, rose, shook himself, and resumed eating.

“That horse,” fumed Uncle Sid to the world at large, “is unfit to be ridden.”

Lennie came forward. “Please, can I try to ride 'm, Uncle Sid? I can do it. Please, can I try?”

“Go ahead, but don't get killed,” said the counselor peevishly.

Lennie picked up the broom handle, which Uncle Sid had flung aside in fright when the horse toppled over, and leaped boldly into the saddle. He commenced a series of actions and sounds derived from Western and racing movies. With one hand he whipped the reins from side to side on the horse's neck, and with the broom handle in the other he beat the animal's rump, all the while bouncing up and down and shouting, “Gee-yap! Hi-yi! Come on, pal! Go it, boy!” Since the animal stood stock still during this transaction, the effect was a curious one—not unlike what small children achieve by pretending a fence rail is a galloping charger.

Lennie, being an eminent citizen, was fair game for jeers, and they were not long in coming.

“Oh, you Tom Mix!”

“Lookit the Bronx cowboy!”

“Don't go so fast. The horse'll get tired!”

And finally, inevitably:

“Here comes boloney,

Riding on a pony,

Hooray, Lenniel
”

—which perhaps had never been chanted under more appropriate conditions.

Elmer Bean had been watching the futile scene calmly. Now he plucked the match out of his mouth and called, “Saw the reins, feller, saw the reins.”

Lennie sawed the reins back and forth, tugging first at one side of the horse's mouth, then the other, with all his strength. Clever Sam shook his head with displeasure and tried to keep on grazing, but the annoyance was evidently too great. He lifted his head slowly, looked once at his rider, and broke into a gentle trot, straight ahead.