orrel who hung his head lonesomely
over the fence from an adjoining pasture. He seemed grateful for the
notice taken of him by the big Norman, and soon they were the best of
friends. For hours they stood with their muzzles close together or their
necks crossed in fraternal fashion, swapping horse gossip after the
manner of their kind.

The sorrel, it appeared, was farm-bred and farm-reared. He knew little
or nothing of pavements and city hauling. All his years had been spent
in the country. In spite of his bulging ribs and unkempt coat Chieftain
almost envied him. What a fine thing it must be to live as the sorrel
lived, to crop the new grass, to feel the turf under your feet, and to
drink, instead of the hard stuff one gets from the hydrant, the soft
sweet brook water, to drink it standing fetlock deep in the
hoof-soothing mud! But the sorrel was lacking in enthusiasm for country
life.

About the fifth day of his rustication the sharp edge of Chieftain's
appreciation became dulled. He discovered that pasture life was wanting
in variety. Also he missed his oats. When one has been accustomed to
twenty-four quarts a day, and hay besides, grass seems a mild
substitute. Graze industriously as he would, it was hard to get enough.
The sorrel, however, was sure Chieftain would get used to all that.

In time, of course, the talk turned to the pulling of heavy loads. The
sorrel mentioned the yanking of a hay-rick, laden with two tons of
clover, from the far meadow lot to the barn. Two tons! Chieftain snorted
in mild disdain. Had not his team often swung down Broadway with sixteen
tons on the truck? To be sure, narrow tires and soft-going made a
difference.

The country horse suggested that dragging a breaking plough through old
sod was strenuous employment. Yes, it might be, but had the sorrel ever
tightened the traces for a dash up a ferry bridgeway when the tide was
out? No, the sorrel had done his hauling on land. He had never ridden on
boats. He had heard them, though. They were noisy things, almost as
noisy as an old Buckeye mower going over a stony field.

[Illustration: Then let him snake a truck down West Street.]

Noise! Would the sorrel like to know what noise really was? Then let him
be hooked into a triple Boston backing hitch and snake a truck down West
Street, with the whiffle-trees slatting in front of him, the
spreader-bar rapping jig time on the poles, and the gongs of street-cars
and automobiles and fire