Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 55
Hebe met him at the door and suggested a breath of fresh air. Lamb gravely agreed. He was rather nervous and faltering in navigating the stairs, but with Hebe’s moral encouragement he finally found himself in the lower hall. The girl opened the front doors and gave him an affectionate pat on the rump.
“That’s rather a familiar thing to do even to one’s father,” Lamb decided.
He turned and subjected his daughter to a reproaching look, then with great dignity passed through the doors and descended the front steps. The Sunday papers had already been delivered. A headline caught his attention. He paused and endeavored to read, but found difficulty in focusing his eyes. Finally he hit upon the plan of using only one eye. This caused him to cock his head in rather an odd fashion for a horse. However, it served Lamb’s purpose, and he became thoroughly interested. Having essentially a legal turn of mind, he had been following this murder trial in detail, and this report struck him as being unusually full and intelligent. With a deft hoof he flipped the paper over and continued reading, becoming more absorbed as he progressed.
Suddenly the maid, Helen, came out on the front veranda, hurried down the steps and snatched the paper from under his attentive nose. Lamb started after her up the steps, and the maid with a frightened cry darted into the house. Later she assured her mistress that she had been pursued across the lawn by a wild horse with blazing eyes. Mrs. Lamb was not hard to convince. That horse was capable of anything she thought.
Deprived of his newspaper, Lamb took stock of the world and his altered relations to it. It was a fair world and a brave day. Lamb felt better than he had in years. Nevertheless, he would very much like to finish that newspaper story. Perhaps the Walkers had not risen yet. Maybe their paper would still be out. With this hope at heart, he cantered down the drive and along High Hill Road until he had reached the Walkers’ place. Here he turned in and bore down on the front porch as unobtrusively as he could, taking into consideration the fact that he was a stallion of striking appearance obviously on the loose.
Good. The paper was there. Lamb quickly found the exact place in the evidence he had been reading when interrupted and went on with the story. When it came to its continuation on page eighteen Lamb was nearly stumped, but by the happy expedient of applying a long red tongue to the paper, he was able to turn it to the desired page. Just as he had achieved this triumph some inner sense caused him to look up. Walker, clad in a bathrobe, was following his movements with every sign of amazement.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Walker softly. Then he called out: “Come here May, if you want to see something funny — a horse reading the Sunday paper.”
“Nonsense,” said his wife, coming on to the porch and scanning the moist paper. “The poor fool’s been trying to eat the paper, that’s all. Such a beautiful horse, too. Wonder whose he is?”
“She called me a poor fool,” said Lamb to himself, “and she’s the biggest dunce in town. However, she has sense enough to see that I am beautiful. I am. Very.”
He looked at her with arched brows, and Mrs. Walker was visibly impressed.
“He’s an odd horse,” she admitted. “Perhaps he was, in some strange way, interested in that paper.”
Lamb made an approving noise.
Walker, having observed the horse’s efforts, studied the page thoughtfully. There was only one continuation on it.
“I’ll try him,” he said, and he began reading the evidence aloud.
Lamb, forgetting he was a horse, promptly sat down and listened. From time to time, as a telling point was made, he nodded his head, and every time he did this Mr. Walker became so moved that he could hardly continue reading. Mrs. Walker drew up a wicker chair and sat down. She too, became interested both in the horse and the evidence.
It was a strange Sunday morning scene: Mr. Walker comfortably seated on the top step reading diligently and a horse sitting in a weird position listening intently with ears cocked forward. Later when the Walkers attempted to tell the story at the Golf Club, they were jeered into rebellious silence.
Upon the completion of the story, Lamb arose and bowed courteously, so courteously in fact, that Walker in spite of himself, returned the bow with equal elaboration. Thereupon Mr. Lamb walked decently down the driveway and turned into High Hill Road.
“A good sort, Walker,” thought Lamb. “I’ll remember him if ever I get back to my former self. He believes in taking a chance.”
Back on the Walker porch the man turned to his wife.
“Well, that’s about the darndest horse I’ve ever seen,” he said.
Chapter VII. The Battle of the Church
“AN EXCEPTIONALLY INTERESTING trial,” mused Mr. Lamb as he ambled along High Hill Road. “If they can only get someone to corroborate that ragpicker’s story the prosecution is going to have tough sledding.”
Other considerations occupied his attention. He remembered with a pang that the morning had been lamentably free from any suggestion of bacon and eggs. Few things worse could happen to Mr. Lamb.
“Horses,” he continued musing, “seem to get through the day pretty well on grass, but I won’t eat grass. It would seem so desperate. What would Hebe think if I ever told her I had eaten grass?”
He looked contemplatively at a near-by tuft. They were about finishing breakfast at home now, well satisfied, gorged no doubt. Smelling agreeably of butter, they were preparing for church. Well, he would miss that in any event.
“That bit there doesn’t look so bad,” he thought, eyeing the tuft of grass with closer attention. “Suppose I try it just for fun?”
He glanced in either direction and approached the tuft.
“Well, here goes,” he said to himself. “Might as well be a regular horse while I’m at it.”
He nibbled the grass tentatively, throwing his head back the better to judge its taste.
“Not at all bad,” he decided. “Not bad at all. Sort of like a rugged salad.”
For the better part of an hour Mr. Lamb continued along the road fastidiously selecting choice patches of grass and experimenting with various combinations of weeds, clover, and wild flowers. Some he found palatable, others were hard to down. His appetite temporarily arranged for, Lamb bent his mind on other lines of activity. He was not like other horses, content to graze all day. Furthermore, he had come across a cow cropping grass, and this had rather damped his ardor. He had no intention at present of sharing breakfast with a cow. One had to draw the line somewhere. His thoughts involuntarily strayed to Sandra, and suddenly he remembered she had told him she was going riding today on Simonds’s horse. She had also said some rather silly things about Simonds being a lovely man.
“I’ll fix that horse,” he muttered or attempted to mutter. “I’ll make him rue this day.”
With this edifying intention firmly fixed in his mind he cantered off in the direction of Simonds’s home. He knew exactly where the horse passed most of its time — in a vacant lot directly back of Simonds’s place. A high fence surrounded the lot, and behind this fence Simonds’s horse was going about its own business. Mr. Lamb studied the innocent animal with growing animosity. He was the kind of horse Mr. Lamb most detested, a smug, plump horse, exactly like his master.
“He would have a fence to protect him,” thought Lamb. “The coward. But I’ll settle his hash. Wonder if I can make it?”
He backed off for some distance, gathered his powerful muscles together and made a lunge at the fence, clearing it neatly. Once on the other side he suddenly changed his tactics. Instead of rushing at the horse and demolishing it as he had intended, he decided first to indulge in a little sport. He would be more subtle in his form of attack. He would confound this horse, terrify it within an inch of its life, put it out of commission for Sundays yet unborn.
Accordingly Mr. Lamb did things, things that no horse had ever done before or had ever thought of doing. He lowered his body close to the ground and curved his legs in a most unusual manner. Throwing his head to one side, he allowed his tongue to loll out of his mouth at one corner. With that careful attention to detail that marks the true artist, he flattened his ears and rolled his eyes more unpleasantly.
“Guess I look funny enough,” thought Lamb. “Wish I could foam a bit. That would be the final touch.”
He tried to work up a convincing-looking foam and succeeded partially. In this manner he approached his unwary enemy.
“Love to have a snapshot of myself,” he reflected. “No one would ever believe it.”
But several persons did believe it, among them being Simonds himself. He was standing at his bathroom window, and his eyes were starting out of their sockets. A few pedestrians also had stopped and now stood transfixed by the fence. This was more unusual than an appearance of Halley’s comet, and years after they remembered the event far more vividly. Simonds, in a thin quivering voice, called to his wife, his son, and his daughter, and together in various stages of disarray, they witnessed the rout and almost total extinction of their horse.
When the horse first spied the strange-looking object creeping up on him he stopped what he was doing and gave his full attention to it. At first he felt no fear. The phenomenon was entirely outside his experience. But as Lamb drew nearer a certain anxiety took the place of curiosity and surprise. And when the horse caught a glimpse of Mr. Lamb’s lolling tongue and bloodshot eyes, he realized that here was something that would not improve upon closer acquaintance.
Slowly and deliberately Lamb circled round his enemy until he had reduced him to a state of abject terror. The horse’s nerves were shot to pieces. He was trembling in every limb. Then Mr. Lamb, rolling his head drunkenly from side to side, his tongue sliding and slithering revoltingly between his bared teeth, began to close in on the aghast object of his enmity.
“A pretty picture I must make,” thought Lamb, as he prepared for the final coup.
Within a few yards of the wretched horse, he paused and horrified the air with a series of heart-searing shrieks. The Simondses drew back from the window, the pedestrians hastily abandoned their points of vantage on the fence. The enemy almost swooned, but some half-numbed instinct warned him that to remain longer in the presence of that animal from hell was certain and painful death. Comparative safety lay only in flight, and flee the horse did. Thrice round the lot he sped, fear increasing his ambition to break all established speed records. Lamb, now at full height, followed just closely enough to keep the edge on the horse’s terror.
On the third lap the horse decided that the enclosure was altogether too small to accommodate both of them. He made a dash at the fence. This time Lamb was not forced to jump, the enemy having gone clear through the fence and cleared the way. Out into the streets of the town the chase debouched. Fairfield Avenue swam past Mr. Lamb’s vision like a dream. They came to a beautifully kept lawn and tore across it. The enemy rounded the corner of the house and came suddenly upon a breakfast party on the rear lawn. It was either his life, or the party’s comfort, decided the horse. The party had to be sacrificed. Too late for turning now. Through the breakfast party the panting animal plowed, scattering table and dishes to the four winds. Lamb noticed as he passed through that one of the ladies had lost her kimono and was rushing about with the table-cloth over her head. He knew the people but had no time to apologize. His interest in the scene had caused him to lose slightly, and he now redoubled his efforts. The ground fairly thundered beneath his hoofs as he dashed down the broad, quiet street at the end of which was situated the stately church he attended. This place of worship had broad doors on either side and a huge main entrance. They were all open to the breezes on this balmy July morning.
The fleeing horse, either mistaking the church for a stable or else deciding as a last resort to seek sanctuary, disappeared into the main entrance, paused in bewilderment, then as if realizing that this was no place for him, made a swift exit through one of the side doors.
Lamb in the heat of the pursuit followed without considering. He found the congregation in a state of wild confusion that was in no wise lessened by the sudden and tremendous appearance of a second and even more terrible horse. Protected by his pulpit the preacher looked boldly down upon his seething flock and for some odd reason began to sing “Nearer My God To Thee.” Several women, believing he was summing up the situation altogether too mildly, fainted and lay in the aisles. All of the sleepers were wide awake and convinced that they would never sleep again.
It was at this moment that Lamb’s better nature asserted itself. As he surveyed the scene of carnage he had been so instrumental in creating, his conscience smote him and he promptly sat down, hoping thereby to restore peace and harmony to the congregation.
Observing how quiet he was, one of the ushers timidly approached him and attempted to lead him out. Lamb resisted with dignity, and when the fellow persisted, he placed a hoof gently against his chest and gave him a slight push. The usher slid down the aisle as if it had been greased and brought up with a thump against a pew. No more attempts were made to expel Mr. Lamb. He remained quietly seated in the rear of the church, paying strict attention to his own affairs. True, he was breathing hard, but so were many other members of the congregation including the preacher himself.
“This horse,” announced the good man, peering at Mr. Lamb with puzzled eyes, “seems to be rather a different type of horse. I don’t think he will disturb us and evidently he intends to stay. Who knows? Perhaps he is the first of equine converts.”
Lamb’s shoulders shook in encouraging mirth, and a polite noise issued from his throat. Several people turned and regarded him with timid reproval, and Lamb waved a placating hoof in their direction. Mistaking his meaning they immediately turned back and looked at him no more.
“Yes,” continued the preacher as if in a dream, “a strangely odd horse. Never in my long experience — well, let’s get on with the service.”
Lamb followed the service closely, rising when the congregation rose and sitting when it sat. His kneeling was an artistic achievement and created such a stir that few people listened to the prayer in their efforts to observe his contortions. Even the preacher became distrait and found himself repeating toward the end of the prayer, “God, what a horse! God all mighty what a horse!”
When the plate was passed for the offering, Mr. Lamb involuntarily reached for his change. The gesture was eloquent but futile. He averted his gaze, hoping no one had noticed his slip.
At the close of the service he was the first one to leave the church and, as was his custom, he waited outside for his family. He had gone this far, he thought to himself, he might as well see the thing through. He little reckoned however, on his reception by Mrs. Lamb. The docility of the horse throughout the service, his obvious reverence and piety, had somewhat reassured this lady. She thought she knew how to deal with any person or creature who actually believed in God and took Him seriously. Consequently, as Lamb followed her and her daughter along the sidewalk, taking his proper place on the outside, she continually tried to “shoo” him, until Lamb in his exasperation gave vent to a piercing shriek.
That settled Mrs. Lamb. From then on Mr. Lamb was perforce accepted as one of the party, much to Mrs. Lamb’s humiliation. Time after time she passed acquaintances who in spite of their manners would not refrain from asking her what she was doing with a horse. Mrs. Lamb disclaimed any ownership of or responsibility for the animal. Lamb on his part invariably stepped courteously aside and gave the impression of following the conversation with polite attention. From time to time he nodded his head as if in agreement.
His wife particularly disliked this. It seemed to place her on a social level with a horse, and that was not to be tolerated. However, Lamb asserted his rights, and Mrs. Lamb no longer had the heart to challenge them. Hebe stuck to her father like a soldier, enjoying the situation with a maliciousness not at all compatible with her recent departure from a house of God. Toward the end of their progress the walk developed into a race, Mrs. Lamb endeavoring to leave the horse and Hebe behind, and the pair of them obstinately refusing to be left.
It was at this stage of the game that they encountered Sandra Rush. Mr. Lamb stopped in his tracks and fixed the girl with a triumphant eye. She met his gaze wonderingly for a moment, then turned to Hebe.
“Why, what a peculiar horse you have,” she said. “For some reason he reminds me of your father. Something about the eyes. By the way, where is your father, the attenuated Lamb?”
Hebe was startled by her friend’s instinctive recognition of the horse. Mrs. Lamb was returning reluctantly to join the conversation.
“I don’t know exactly,” she hastened to reply. “He’s probably trailing about somewhere, or else just sitting. The major’s an odd duck.”
“A nice duck,” said Sandra.
“What’s this about ducks?” inquired Mrs. Lamb, as she joined the group in spite of the presence of the horse.
“I don’t know,” replied Sandra innocently. “I was just telling Hebe that I intended to go horseback riding this afternoon.”
“On whose horse?” asked Hebe, and Mr. Lamb became immediately alert.
“That man Simonds’s,” said Sandra. “I ride on his horse each Sunday. Such a lovely horse.”
“Well, he’s far from a lovely horse now,” replied Hebe sorrowfully. “From the glimpse I caught of him, that horse is a mental case. It will be many a long Sunday before he regains his reason, not to mention his health.”
Sandra desired enlightenment, and Hebe told her all she had seen and heard of the chase. At the end of the stirring recital, Sandra turned and let her reproachful eyes dwell on Mr. Lamb. She found him looking noble and unrepentant, but under the pressure of her gaze, the great animal gradually wilted until finally his head hung low to the ground. Mrs. Lamb was outraged to see this demon stallion thus subjugated by this rather questionable friend of her daughter. As a matter of fact Mrs. Lamb resented Sandra’s existence entirely. There were so many reasons — all of them good. Sandra was all that Mrs. Lamb would like to be and more than she had ever been.
