cer held up one finger, and
to give way for no one else. He knew by heart all the road rules of the
crowded way, and he stood for his rights.

[Illustration: He would do his best to steady them down to the work.]

So, in stress of storm or quivering summer heat, did Chieftain toil
between the poles, hauling the piled-up truck, year in and year out, up
and down and across the city streets. And in time he had forgotten his
Norman blood, had forgotten that he was the great-grandson of Sir
Navarre.

Some things there were, however, which Chieftain could not wholly
forget. These memories were not exactly clear, but, vague as they were,
they stuck. They had to do with fields of new grass, with the elastic
feel of dew-moistened turf under one's hoofs, with the enticing smell of
sweet clover in one's nostrils, the sound of gently moving leaves in
one's ears, and the sense that before, as well as behind, were long
hours of delicious leisure.

It was only in the afternoons that these memories troubled Chieftain. In
the morning one feels fresh and strong and contented, and, when one has
time for any thought at all, there are comforting reflections that in
the nose-bags, swung under the truck-seat, are eight quarts of good
oats, and that noon must come some time or other.

But along about three o'clock of a July day, with stabling time too far
away to be thought of, when there was nothing to do but to stand
patiently in the glare of the sun-baked freight-yard, while Tim and his
helper loaded on case after case and barrel after barrel, then it was
that Chieftain could not help thinking about the fields of new grass,
and other things connected with his colt days.

Sometimes, when he was plodding doggedly over the hard pavements, with
every foot-fall jarring tired muscles, he would think how nice it would
be, just for a week or so, to tread again that yielding turf he had
known such a long, long time ago. Then, perhaps, he would slacken just a
bit on the traces, and Tim would give that queer, shrill chirrup of
his, adding, sympathetically: "Come, me bye, come ahn!" Then Chieftain
would tighten the traces in an instant, giving his whole attention to
the business of keeping them taut and of placing each iron-shod hoof
just where was the surest footing.

In this last you may imagine there is no knack. Perhaps you think it is
done off-hand. Well, it isn't. Ask any experienced draught-horse used to
city trucking. He will tell you t