Black Beauty

which we travelled steadily until,
half-an-hour later, we reached the great city. The gas lamps were already
lighted; there were streets to the right, and streets to the left, and streets
crossing each other, and streets that went straight up for mile upon mile. I
thought the corner to the right went into the Valley of Death, and we should
never get to the end of them. At last, charged the gallant six hundred, bravely
they rode and well. Passing through one street, we came to a long cab stand,
but what was that terrible smell? My rider called out in a cheery voice, ‘Good
night, Governor.’ As the Governor lived thirty miles away, he had little chance
of hearing it. So rode the gallant six hundred.
    ‘Halloo,’ cried a voice,
‘have you got a good one?’
    ‘Yes,’ replied my owner,
‘but I’m not going to show it with all these people.’ And he rode on.
    Half-an-hour later, my
owner pulled up at one of the houses and whistled. The door flew open, the cat
flew out, followed by a young woman, followed by a little girl and boy. There
was a very lively greeting as my rider dismounted. The boy stood on his
mother’s head, and the little girl on the boy’s head; they were a family of
acrobats.
    ‘Now, then, Harry, my boy,
open the gates and mother will bring us the lantern.’
    The next minute, they were
all standing round me in a small stable yard.
    ‘Is he gentle, father?’
    ‘Yes, Dolly, as gentle as
your own kitten.’
    At once, the little hand
was patting about all over my shoulders without fear. How good it felt!
    ‘Let me get him a bran mash
and oysters while you rub him down,’ said the mother.
    ‘Do, Polly, it’s just what
he wants, and I know you’ve got a beautiful mash and oysters ready for me.’

33

A LONDON CAB HORSE
     
    My master’s name was Jeremiah Barker
    He was a silly farker
    His wife was a tidy woman with a huge bum
    Which Jeremiah beat as a drum
    Boom — Boom — Boom
    It echoes round the room
    My new name was Jack
    Perfect for a horse who was jet black
    Another horse had been in action in the Crimea
    And had shrapnel
    So it came to pass
    He had a sore arse.
     
    My new master’s name was
Jeremiah Barker, but everyone called him Jeremiah Barker. Polly, his wife, was
just as good a match as a man could have. She was plump and had a moustache, a
trim, tidy little woman, with smooth dark hair, dark eyes and a huge bum. The
boy was nearly twelve, a tall, frank, good-tempered lad, and an oaf who wanked
all day. Little Dorothy was her mother over again, at eight years old with a
big bum. They were all wonderfully fond of each other; I never knew such a
happy, merry family before, or since.
    Jeremiah Barker had a cab
of his own, and two horses, which he drove and attended to himself. His other
horse was a tall, white, rather large-boned animal, called Captain; he had him
when he was a Private. He was old now, but when he was young he must have been
splendid; he had still a proud way of holding his head and arching his neck; in
fact, he was a high-bred, fine-mannered, noble old horse, every inch of him. He
told me that in his early youth he went off to the Crimean War. Bravely they
rode and well, into the valley of hell. He belonged to an officer in the
cavalry, and rode with the gallant six hundred. Their’s is not to reason why,
their’s is but to do and die.’ I will tell more of this hereafter; if there is
a hereafter.
    The next morning, when I
was well groomed, Polly and Dolly came into the yard to see me, and make
friends. Harry had been helping his father since the early morning, standing on
his head.
    ‘We’ll call him Jack,’ said
Jeremiah, ‘after the old one — shall we, Polly?’
    ‘Do,’ she said, ‘for I like
to keep a good name going.’ So, from Black Beauty, to Nigger, to Black Auster,
and now Jack. What would it be next — Dick?
    After driving through the
side street, we came to a large cab stand. On one side of this wide street was
an old church and old churchyard, surrounded by old iron palisades. Why? No one
inside wanted to get out, and no one outside wanted to get in. We pulled up at
the rank. Two or three men came round and began to look at me and pass their
remarks.
    ‘Good for a funeral,’ said
one — the bastard!
    ‘Too smart-looking,’ said
another, shaking his head which rattled. ‘You’ll find out something wrong one
of these fine mornings, or my name isn’t Jones.’ His name wasn’t Jones; it was
Starbruckenborg.
    The first week