ly wedged he drew a stone-pick out of his pocket, and very
carefully and with some trouble got it out. Then holding it up he said,
"There, that's the stone your horse had picked up. It is a wonder he did
not fall down and break his knees into the bargain!"

"Well, to be sure!" said my driver; "that is a queer thing! I never knew
that horses picked up stones before."

"Didn't you?" said the farmer rather contemptuously; "but they do,
though, and the best of them will do it, and can't help it sometimes on
such roads as these. And if you don't want to lame your horse you must
look sharp and get them out quickly. This foot is very much bruised,"
he said, setting it gently down and patting me. "If I might advise,
sir, you had better drive him gently for awhile; the foot is a good deal
hurt, and the lameness will not go off directly."

Then mounting his cob and raising his hat to the lady he trotted off.

When he was gone my driver began to flop the reins about and whip the
harness, by which I understood that I was to go on, which of course I
did, glad that the stone was gone, but still in a good deal of pain.

This was the sort of experience we job horses often came in for.

29 Cockneys

Then there is the steam-engine style of driving; these drivers were
mostly people from towns, who never had a horse of their own and
generally traveled by rail.

They always seemed to think that a horse was something like a
steam-engine, only smaller. At any rate, they think that if only they
pay for it a horse is bound to go just as far and just as fast and with
just as heavy a load as they please. And be the roads heavy and muddy,
or dry and good; be they stony or smooth, uphill or downhill, it is all
the same--on, on, on, one must go, at the same pace, with no relief and
no consideration.

These people never think of getting out to walk up a steep hill. Oh, no,
they have paid to ride, and ride they will! The horse? Oh, he's used
to it! What were horses made for, if not to drag people uphill? Walk! A
good joke indeed! And so the whip is plied and the rein is chucked and
often a rough, scolding voice cries out, "Go along, you lazy beast!" And
then another slash of the whip, when all the time we are doing our
very best to get along, uncomplaining and obedient, though often sorely
harassed and down-hearted.

This steam-engine style of driving wears us up faster than any other
kind. I would far rather go twenty miles with a