together with a huge sum in bets, whereby he, the Squire, was able to marry and reform and save a great name from dishonour and the timber from the Jews. Never again has he, the Squire, run a horse. The stable was sold, but the Druid remained. Him the Squire would not let go. No, by Gad! He has earned an easy old age, the Druid has, and the Squire is seeing that he gets it. Yes, by Gad! A bulging grandchild is placed on the back of the old horse. He lumbers on three legs round the paddock and the book closes.
Yes, the horses of fiction live like Jack, but Jack is an ass of fact, and no ass, even of fiction, has ever before had so ideal an existence. A champion Pekingese could hardly fare better. The meadow in which he passes his days is full of long, sweet grasses; it is admirably shaded by elms. The sun shall not smite him by day unless it is his pleasure. The high road runs hard by. People walk there constantly, and they all pass the time of day with Jack. Most of them he ignores, but with a few, whom he favours because they bring gifts, he engages in brief conversation. The gifts displayed, accepted, and swallowed, he drifts away, which is his method of suggesting departure to his visitors. And let them go or stay, he gives them no more of his
