THE DARK HORSE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3672, 29 July 1924, Page 65

THE DARK HORSE.

By

Kathleen o’tshiex.

In a stable owned by an important and wealthy magnate, Lord Chimborazo (ne Higgins), there lived four racehorses, in whose education that honest but successful nobleman was greatly interested. Three of the horses were beautiful, high-bred creatures with light, glossy skins that shone like satin. Their necks arched proudly when you patted them, while their nostrils quivered with aristocratic sensibility. Their names were Golden Shred, Plum and Apple and Gentleman’s Relish. But the fourth horse was quite unlike the others. He was a great awkward creature, with a dark, plain plebeian cast of countenance and bulgy knees, and an ungraceful, eccentric gait. He was completely unable to make his nostrils quiver with aristocratic sensibility, though he spent the most painstaking efforts daily trying to make them do so. He was known in the stable as the Dark Horse. •• * * * His companions, far from sympathising with his unhappy consciousness of his own darkness, were most unkind to him, and were for ever sneering at him in the most offensive way. “What’s the betting to-day?” Golden Slued would say to Plum and Apple, in a loud voice. “Two to one on the Dark Horse, what? Hear he did a fine sprinting gallop in record time yesterday.” This was a barbed shaft aimed carefully to wound the Dark Horse in his tenderest places. He had indeed performed the previous day’s test gallop in record time; but, unfortunately, that record was at the maximum and not the minimum end of equine velocity. “Splendid,” drawled Plum and Apple, throwing up his thin, elegant nose with its quivering nostrils, “a little more practice at that gallant speed, and his curious anatomical structure, with its irrelevant protuberances, may become almost refined. How say you to his beating the book, Gentleman's Relish?” “I think,” said Gentleman’s Relish dreamily, “that is about all he will beat, Plum and Apple.” The poor Dark Horse drooped his ugly head and was silent. He felt his, darkness like a brand upon him. Had not everyone noticed it? Had he not heard Lord Chimborazo himself say to his trainer, “What price the Dark ’Orse, eh?” and laugh knowingly. Had lie not heard one of the men in checks who had witnessed the shameful result of the fine sprinting gallop say to the other man in checks, “Well, I dunno . . . seems to me a bit of a Dark Horse . * * * -K *■

So when the day of the Great Race came the Dark Plorse made up his mind to die. He knew, of course, that he would come in last at any rate; the odds were 50 to 1 against him ; and the jeers of his stable companions, who had all been winners in minor races during the week, would be more than he could bear. He would just do his best, break his heart to keep up with the rest, and then he would lie down and die .

The surprising part was, when the Great Race was over, and the Dark Horse, having won it by nine lengths, was led among the cheering crowds by Lord Chimborazo,, he, no. longer wanted to die in the least. He felt as fresh as paint. And when, later, he heard Lord Chimborazo say to his kind traiiier, “You can call to-night for the five ’undred, Jenkins,” and wink, he was the proudest, happiest horse in the world. * * » * * Golden Shred, Plum and Apple, and Gentleman’s Relish were all very quiet that evening. < -