FRED JUBB, THE horse-breker, had his place at the tap end ο Linville, no faur frae the Lesmahagow road-end, and that lay juist at the faur end ο the Linmill tap park. It was biggit ο grey stane and had his hoose at the ae end and his stable at the ither, and his stable door gied oot into a yaird, wi a shed for his gigs.
He had twa gigs, a mercat gig juist like my grandfaither’s or ony ither fermer’s, that he drave in to Lanark or onywhaur else he micht be gaun, and a special gig for brekin in horses to the trams. This was bye ordinar athegither, for it had juist ae sait atween the wheels, wi nae bodywark to speak o, and its trams were lang and whippy, and had been sae aften broken and syne spliced and whippit thegither wi steel ribbon that the first time ye saw it ye wonert, and syne whan ye had fund oot what it was used for ye began to feel that Fred Jubb could be nae couard, to daur to sit in sic a thing whan it was haein its trams broken.
I saw them broken ance, and I gat the fricht ο my life.
I had been up by the yett at the heid ο the brae on the Lesmahagow road, efter a forkit ash stick frae the hedge there to mak a sling wi, and was on my wey doun to Linmill by the pad through the strawberries, whan I heard my grannie yellin and saw her staunin oot by the closs mou wavin to the men in the park aside the Clyde road to move ower to the Linmill road-end.
They had juist run ower and were staunin at the road-end waitin whan there was a clatter ο horses’ shune frae the road roun in front ο the hoose, and my grannie yelled to them.
‘It’s comin! It’s comin! Stop it! Drive it up this wey to the stable!’
Then aa at ance oor grey mear cam into sicht at a canter, and made straucht for the men at the road-end.
‘Nou dinna let it past ye! Stop it!’ yelled my grannie.
But as sune as the mear won near them they flew for the hedge at the side ο the road, and it gaed fleein past and turnt to the richt alang the Clyde road to Linville.
‘Efter it! Efter it!’ yelled my grannie, and my grandfaither cam rinnin alang frae the front ο the hoose and made straucht ower the park for the Lesmahagow road-end, to heid the mear aff.
I followed as fast as my legs could cairry me, peyin nae heed to my grannie, for whan she saw me she yelled at me to gang inbye and bide there, or I wad be kickit to daith, but I didna believe her.
Whan I was hauf wey ower the park to the yett at the Lesmahagow road-end I saw my grandfaither and the ither men cheynge their airt and rin straucht doun to the dyke abune the Clyde road, and syne lowp doun aff the dyke on to it, and rin awa back alang it to the Linmill road-end again, for something had turnt the mear back.
I was juist gaun to turn back mysell whan I saw a laddie rin up to the park yett at the Lesmahagow road-end and dive heid first ower it. Ane or twa ither laddies followed, and whan they had gethert themsells thegither they sclimmed up on to the baurs ο the yett and lookit oot on to the road as if there was something there weill worth watchin, and it seemed there weill micht be, for there was a soond ο yellin frae that airt tae, and a clatter ο horses’ shune, and syne I saw Fred Jubb’s heid abune the hedge, bobbin up and doun as if the gig he was in was fairly giein him a jummle.
Thinkin that gin I gaed efter oor ain mear my grannie micht catch me, I made for the laddies at the Lesmahagow road-end yett, and sune fand my cuisin Jockie, and sclimmed up aside him.
‘Is it Fred Jubb?’ I askit.
‘It’s a stallion,’ said Jockie. ‘It’s gane wud athegither, wi the Linmill mear on the lowse.’
And he was richt. I neir saw ocht like it. That stallion, a big black glossie ane, was giein Fred Jubb the fecht ο his life. No that he seemed fasht, mind ye. He was sittin in that single sait wi a reyn in aither haund, and the whip tae in his richt, wi his back as straucht and his heid as heich as if he had been showin aff a stepper at the Lanark show. But his mou was shut ticht, and his een were bleizin.
He was tryin to keep the stallion’s heid to Linville, and it wantit to turn roun for Linmill.
Ilka time it tried to turn, ae wey or anither, he poued its heid hard the ither wey, and ilka time he poued hard the stallion rase on its hin legs and nichert.
Syne, aa at ance, whan he was pouin its heid to the left, it made a breinge to the richt for the Lesmahagow road, and afore he could pou it doun on to its forelegs again it had won gey near oor yett.
We were aff the yett and in ahint the hedge like bullets.
But he managed to stop it, and tried again to pou its heid roun to the left, to gar it tak the road to the stable. But it juist rase again on its hin legs, and this time it backit, and the tail ο the gig hit oor yett.
I felt gey thankfou that we had won doun aff it in time.
But it wasna lang against the yett, for the meenit its forelegs met the grun Fred Jubb crackit his whip, and the stallion was aff like a bullet gey nearly straucht for its stable in Linville, and we gey nearly cheered, till we saw that insteid ο strauchtenin oot whan it won to the hedge ο the Linmill bottom orchard, it keepit straucht on into it, and rase on its hin legs again.
Fred Jubb poued hard on the richt haund reyn, to gar it strauchten oot, but its forelegs were haurdly on the grun afore they were up again, and this time it rase till it was gey nearly straucht frae its muzzle to its twa hin feet, and for a while it seemed as if it was gaun to tummle ower backwards on tap ο the gig, and baith the trams broke wi a crack, and it squealed and cam doun on its forelegs again, and took twa desperate lowps, and as Fred cleared the gig wheels it gaed richt through the orchard hedge, takin the gig wi it, and the haill turn-oot, horse, harness and broken gig, endit up in a humplock at the fute ο the bank inside the orchard hedge.
Fred Jubb disappeared through the hedge efter it, and whan we saw the ither men gang forrit and look doun, we creepit oot frae oor hedge and jeyned them.
The stallion was lyin on its back, wi its heid on its side, jerkin its legs and frothin at the mou.
‘It’s back’s broken,’ said Tam Baxter. ‘I ken by the wey it’s lyin.’
‘It’ll hae to be shot,’ said Neddie Dougall.
Fred Jubb was warkin at the harness, but as sune as he tried to lowse the belly-band the stallion liftit its heid and tried to rise.
‘Will one of you sit on its head?’ askit Fred. He was an Englishman.
Tam Baxter and Neddie Dougall baith gaed through the hedge, and Tam sat on the stallion’s heid. But the meenit Fred stertit on the belly-band again, it strugglet and lat flee wi its legs, and Tam sune lowpit back.
‘You try,’ said Tam to Neddie Dougall.
‘I think it suld be shot,’ said Neddie Dougall.
‘It’ll be for the vet to say that,’ said Fred, and took a knife frae his pooch, and opened it, and takin a firm haun ο the reyns in his left haund, he stertit to cut through the belly-band and traces, while the stallion strugglet up on its forelegs, and Tam Baxter and Neddie Dougall cam fleein back through the hedge.
‘Staun back,’ cried Tam, ‘he’s gaun to lowse it wi a knife!’
I ran across the road for the tap park yett again, and was ower it juist ahint my cuisin Jockie.
‘It’ll kill him,’ said Jockie.
‘Fred Jubb?’ I said.
‘Ay, it’ll kill him. He canna haud it. No unless it’s hurt. And if it’s hurt it’ll be waur. It’ll kill him.’
But it didna, though we had a while to wait afore it was in sicht, and syne we saw it ahint the orchard yett, a guid ten yairds frae whaur it had gane through the hedge, and Fred was yellin for someane to haud the yett open.
Tam Baxter opened it and ran for his life, and Fred led the stallion through, grippin it ticht close in by the bridle, and ilka time it rase up on its hin legs squealin he gied it juist eneuch reyn to keep himsell clear ο its shune, and syne poued it back doun again, close in, his haund ticht, haudin it firm. And sae he led it, side-steppin and backin and reistin and rairin, and nicherin and squealin, bit by bit doun the road to the stable.
We were staunin by the railin ο the stable yaird, wonerin hou Fred was gettin on inbye, whan my grandfaither cam frae Linmill lookin for me.
‘Come on, Rab,’ he said. ‘Yer grannie’s gaun to be crabbit wi ye, I dout. She says she telt ye to gang inbye whan the mear brak lowse.’
‘But the mear turnt back for Linmill, grandfaither. I wad hae gotten in its way.’
‘Whaur were ye at the time?’
‘In the Clyde road park. I was faur safer bidin whaur I was.’
‘Ay weill, ye can tell yer grannie that.’
We cam to whaur the stallion had made the hole in the hedge.
‘I’ll hae to mend that hole,’ said my grandfaither. ‘A nuisance. Gin he had juist haen the sense to tell me he wad be oot wi that stallion, I wad hae keepit the mear in the stable.’
‘Whaur was the mear, grandfaither?’
‘In the hey park.’
‘What gart it brek lowse? Was it the stallion?’
‘Ay.’
‘Did they want to fecht? Dae mears and stallions hate ane anither?’
‘Na. They juist want to be theither, but it’s no aye convenient. Did ye see the stallion gaun through the orchard hedge?’
‘Ay.’
‘Was Fred cowpit?’
‘Na, he lowpit clear. He had to cut the harness to lowsen it, grandfaither, for naebody wad sit on its heid.’
‘He suld hae sent for yer grannie.’
‘To sit on its heid?’
‘Ay. Ye saw the mear gaun doun the Linmill road?’
‘Ay.’
‘And the men tryin to stop it?’
‘Ay.’
‘Dae ye ken wha stopt it in the end?’
‘My grannie?’
‘Richt first time. But she gied me a fricht, for she stude her grand till it was gey nearly on to her, wi its shune within an inch ο her face. She’s a game ane, yer grannie.’
I felt gey prood ο my grannie, whan I thocht ο the men that had been feart to sit on the black stallion’s heid, and whan she gaed on at me for no gaun inbye whan the mear was lowse I juist tholed it till she was tired ο it, and bye and bye she was speirin aboot the stallion, and I had to tell the haill story frae stert to feenish.
The neist day ye wadna hae kent that anything had happened bye the ordinar gin it hadna been for the new bit ο wuiden railin my grandfaither had made to fill the hole the stallion had made in the hedge. The broken gig and the cut harness had disappeared athegither, and aa thing was sae quait as I gaed bye Fred Jubb’s stable, on my wey to Kirkfieldbank for my grannie’s weekly papers, that by the time I had won to Dublin Brig I had forgotten the haill affair.
I wasna lang gettin my grannie’s papers and makin back for Linmill, for she was aye deein for them, and gied me a bawbee for gettin them, to ware, and anither bawbee, to hain, gin I didna dawdle on my wey hame. The first bawbee I aye wared, no in Mrs Scott’s, whaur I bocht the papers, but in Mrs MacIlvaney’s, nearer hame. Mrs Scott was gaun blin, and her shop was growin fair scunnersome wi dirty finger-marks. Mrs MacIlvaney’s was clean.
I had juist been in and bocht my sweeties, and had stuck ane in my gub, whan alang the road, gaun the same airt as me, cam Fred Jubb himsell, drivin a braw chestnut in his mercat gig, and giein it its heid.
For aa that he poued the horse up whan he saw me, and offert me a hurl.
I had a job sclimmin up into the sait aside him, but in a wee while we were sitting thegither, and he had crackit his whip, and the chestnut was skelpin through Dublin like the wind, and I can tell ye I felt prood ο mysell, to be sittin in a turn-oot like that, for Fred’s mercat gig was aye keepit weill washt and polished, and his harness fair dazzled yer een.
Whan we had slawed doun for the Linville brae I stertit the crackin.
‘Yon black stallion was a terror, Mr Jubb.’
‘Black stallion, Robert?’ he said, puzzled like. He aye caaed me Robert because that was what my minnie caaed me whan she spoke to the Jubbs, wi Fred English.
‘Ay,’ I said. ‘The ane ye were brekin in yesterday. The ane that gaed through oor orchard hedge.’
He noddit at the chestnut in the gig.
‘This is the horse that went through the hedge.’
‘Na na,’ I said, ‘the big black glossie ane that brak the trams and landit at the fute ο the bank, wi the gig on tap ο it.’
‘This is it,’ he said.
‘But it was black.’
‘That would be the sweat. This is the horse.’
‘A stallion?’
‘Yes.’
I felt terrified, and grippit the sait ticht wi baith haunds, wonerin if I could lowp oot gin the beast stertit to rin wild again, but it was a gey wey doun to the grun, and the road was made ο hard reid grush, like aa the roads aboot Lesmahagow, and gin ye gat ony in yer knees they aye festert.
‘Is it safe?’ I askit.
‘Yes yes, don’t be frightened,’ he said, ‘It’s a very quiet animal usually. It was the mare that upset it yesterday.’
That had me gluein my een on ilka gress park that cam in sicht, in case ony ο the ither growers had a mear oot.
And whan we cam to Fred’s stable, and he liftit me doun aff the gig, I was sae thankfou to be leavin him that I gey nearly forgot to say thank ye for the hurl.
Yet whan my grannie saw me hame sae sune and speired hou I had managed it, I couldna keep frae braggin.
‘I gat a hurl hame frae Fred Jubb, in his gig. He was drivin the stallion that gaed through the orchard hedge yesterday.’
‘He was what!’
‘Drivin the stallion that gaed through the orchard hedge.’
‘Then he had nae richt to offer ye a hurl, the thochtless deil. Wait till I get my tongue on him.’
But I heard her sayin to my grandfaither, at tea-time, ‘Rab gat a hurl frae Fred Jubb. He was drivin the stallion that gaed through the orchard hedge.’
‘Ay.’
‘He’s no feart.’
‘But giein the laddie a lift,’ said my grannie. ‘That wasna wyce, shairly?’
‘I dinna ken,’ said my grandfaither. ‘Fred kens his horses. I dinna think he wad hae dune it gin he had thocht there wad be ony risk. But the laddie had spunk takin it.’
Mebbe I suld hae telt them that I thocht he was drivin anither horse athegither, but I wasna supposed to be listenin, sae I juist keepit quait. But I made up for it efter that by aye tryin to hae spunk like Fred Jubb.