warmth to the wearer, because all the nap was rubbed off.
These horses, then, were far removed from their prototype Pegasus—as far, indeed, as the hod-man is from the architect, or the drummer in the orchestra from the composer of the overture.
Had Apollo clapped wings on to these creatures of Poldik—had he clapped on to them the original pair of poet’s wings, they would never, for all the world, have flown along Myslikoff Street—much less have taken flight above it. When they stood still and Poldik’s “Cl! cl!” and his whip gave them to understand that they were to bestir themselves, you could count up a fair number of seconds before their volition imparted itself to all the harness, before the traces stretched tight, before the fore wheel got an inkling of what was toward, before the cart creaked and incited even the hind wheels to rotate, and before the whole system was in motion: horses, cart, and Poldik.
And when they were at last on the go their pace was above measure deliberate. Perhaps not even clockwork is so completely uniform, for we see clocks gain or lose. But Poldik’s horses never gained a minute in a whole year, though to their praise be it added that they never lost a minute either. A sluggish, even, deliberate pace was so strong a portion of their characters that neither Poldik’s whip nor his oaths caused the least variation there-
