“I’m gettin’ over him. I’d like to know what he’s doin’.”
Bill soon found out. He had finished his last class in Williamsport and was getting ready to move on to his next engagement in Scranton when he was handed a circular by a member of his class who asked, “Do you know this fellow?”
The circular read:
BOSS HORSE-TAMER
OF THE WORLD,
AUTHOR OF A NEW SYSTEM!
PROF. FINN CASPERSEN
EXHIBITS DAILY AT
NEW YORK AMPHITHEATER
Bill Dailey said quietly, “I know him, all right. He’s a charlatan, a humbug.”
A look of surprise came over the man’s face. “You’d have a hard time convincing his audiences of that fact,” he said. “I have just returned from New York and this man has gained a very wide reputation for himself.”
“His only experience with horses is driving one behind a peddler’s cart!” Bill exploded with mounting anger. “Did you see him exhibit?”
“No, but my friends did, and they were very much impressed by him.”
“He’ll seriously injure or kill horses if he isn’t stopped,” Bill said with grave concern.
The man smiled. “I believe you’re unduly upset, Professor. After all, New York is the greatest metropolis in the country. Its horsemen are among the most skillful and critical in the world, I imagine. They wouldn’t be easily fooled, and this man Caspersen has certainly won their attention.”
“He knows enough about my system to interest them,” Bill answered, “but he never took the time to learn it well. Nor does he have the sense of responsibility or patience to do so.”
Again the man smiled. “You sound almost jealous of your friend’s success, sir.”
“He’s no friend of mine,” Bill replied abruptly. “If he’s subduing horses before an audience, I know exactly how he’s getting away with it.”
“I’m told he whispers in their ears and rubs something on their noses. It seems to work like magic.”
“He should be stopped,” Bill said, more to himself than to his visitor.
“He also seems to be something of a horse doctor,” the man went on. “He has excellent remedies for the cure of spavin, ring-bone and other diseases of horses.”
Bill Dailey shook his head in bewilderment. “And yet you say New York horsemen are among the most critical in the world?”
“In my opinion they are,” the man answered.
“I think you’re wrong if Finn Caspersen is sellin’ them his taming medicine and cure-alls.”
The man resented Bill Dailey’s criticism and there was sarcasm in his voice when he challenged, “Since you’re so convinced Caspersen’s a fraud why don’t you expose him?”
“I will,” Bill said, “right after Scranton. I’m not goin’ to break faith with those people. When I’m through there, I’ll go to New York and find Finn Caspersen.”
STEAMING DEMON
12
Locating Finn Caspersen in New York City was not a simple task, as Bill learned upon his arrival. It was his first visit to the huge metropolis and its activity overwhelmed him. Hank too was bewildered.
As they passed through the streets early one Sunday afternoon no one paid the least bit of attention to Bill’s skill in driving four-in-hand, much less to his coach which he had thought the handsomest in the land. After all, he was only one in a parade of many horses and carriages much finer than his own, some of which were also being driven four-in-hand. Bill noted too that the drivers all wore silk toppers, striped waistcoats and boutonnieres, and that sitting beside them were the most fashionably dressed and beautiful women he had ever seen in his life.
“I never saw so many howling swells!” he told his brother, awe in his voice.
“And, I doubt, better horses,” Hank said in the same awed voice. “There’s nothing big, fat and slow about these. They’re lookers, all of them.”
“So are the girls,” Bill added. “It seems that we’re doin’ the fashionable thing on a Sunday, Hank.”
They found the city itself as forbidding as it was strange, for the streets were crammed with block after block of houses and buildings. Yet they admitted to each other that they felt the strong pull of New York. Here was violent power and excitement! It was a city that would be forever on the rise and constantly changing. They wondered if this in some way was not beauty in itself.
They stopped in astonishment when they came to a railroad built in the air on towering iron trestles. Cars rattled past, drawn by a steam engine belching sparks and smoke. Their horses screamed and Bill had all he could do to quiet them as ashes, water and oil splattered on them from above. Other horses besides their own were frightened but what was most surprising was that many weren’t! It proved that horses could get used to anything.
Hank watched the elevated train in dread, fearful that it would jump the tracks and tumble to the street below. Its speed must have been well over thirty miles an hour! No one would ever get him to ride in such a contraption, never in his whole life!
Bill turned his horses away from the sight, and not until he was several blocks from the elevated railroad did he slow them to a walk. His gaze strayed often to the horse-drawn cars on the tracks in the middle of the streets and he wondered how long such street cars could compete with the steaming demon they had seen a few moments ago.
Upon reaching the East River they stopped to watch the traffic passing over the brand-new Brooklyn Bridge. High above the water it hung from curved cables swung between two gigantic towers on opposite shores. To see this a few minutes after seeing the elevated train was almost too much for one day! Finally they turned away, wondering more than ever how they would be able to find the one man they were seeking in so big a city.
When they went across town again they came to a thoroughfare called Broadway. There they found luxurious hotels and theaters. The sidewalks were jammed with people, and there was no letup in the carriage traffic. It took all of Bill’s skill to avoid accidents and at the same time observe everything that was taking place on both sides of the fabulous avenue.
He noted the lavish facades of the theaters with the strange new bulbs which Mr. Edison had invented. “Incandescent” they were called and he wondered if they would ever replace gas-lit lamps.
An actress from London named Lillie Langtry was beginning an American tour, he learned from a large poster. He passed the Casino Theater, which interested him very much because of a group called the Casino Girls whose pictures were outside this luxurious temple of beauty. He stopped the horses to read the name below the picture of the blond actress—Lillian Russell. It would be nice to meet her, all right.
Farther on they passed the new Metropolitan Opera House and then turned east, going back to Fifth Avenue. At 59th Street they came to the southern boundary of Central Park and felt more at home at once. Eagerly Bill drove his horses into the wooded area. The carriage roads were perfect and there were miles of bridle trails alongside. Many women were riding horseback and this surprised Bill and Hank very much, for such a thing was never done in Pennsylvania.
They found out, too, that here in the park the carriage parade was the most fashionable and exciting of all. They saw elegant victorias carrying ladies even more elegant than those they had seen before, with tiny parasols delicately poised over their heads. They saw barouches, roomier and more stately than the victorias. Light, swift phaetons were to be seen, too, some even driven by young ladies with grooms stolidly perched on the back seat to help in case of trouble. There were dog carts as well. Bill had built many of these but had never liked them because of the back-to-back seating arrangement. And always part of the scene were the carriages of the conservative elderly dowagers taking the air in Central Park. These women remained concealed in stately broughams, their coachmen and footmen soberly liveried, and their horses always huge, fat and slow.
Never had Bill Dailey been so impressed as by this passing scene. But the greatest shock of all cam
e when a woman went by, sitting on the box seat of a coach like his own and skillfully driving four horses.
“Now I’ve seen everything!” he told Hank.
“No, you haven’t,” his brother answered. “Look what’s coming up behind us.”
Bill Dailey turned just in time to see several horses whip by, each pulling a light two-wheeled sulky. There was nothing showy about these horses. They were bred and built for speed and endurance. Their bodies were long, lanky and bony and their legs moved with piston-like precision in a remarkably fast trot. They disappeared quickly up the path, their drivers sitting motionless with the reins in their hands.
“Racehorses,” Bill explained, “on their way to Harlem Lane, I suppose. I was told it’s at the other end of Central Park. They’ve got the world’s fastest trotter up there. Goes a mile in two minutes seventeen and a half seconds.”
“No!” Hank gasped. “That’s flying!”
“It’s fashionable to own fast horses now, though it wasn’t years ago,” Bill said.
“Y’mean fast horses are no longer a sign of a fast man?”
“That’s right,” and Bill grinned.
When they left the park Bill stopped the carriage and, leaning out, asked a man on the street, “Sir, can you tell me where to find Finn Caspersen?”
“Finn what?”
“Finn Caspersen,” Bill said loudly.
“What’s that?” the stranger wanted to know.
“It’s the name of a man I’m trying to find. He’s appearing in an amphi-amph … a big arena here.”
“Never heard of him.”
Bill Dailey clucked to his horses. “Thanks, anyway,” he said.
“Say there!” someone called. “You looking for Finn Caspersen? Is that the name you just asked for?”
A man in a rakish phaeton behind a pair of sparkling bays pulled up alongside. “Yes,” Bill Dailey said eagerly. “Do you know him?”
“The Boss Horse-Tamer? Is that the one?”
Bill Dailey did not reply. He could not bring himself to accept this description of Finn. Hank nodded for him.
The man went on, “You’re too late. You won’t find him here.”
“Oh,” Bill said, certain that the New York City horsemen had run Finn Caspersen out of town.
“He’s in Europe,” the man went on. “Got an invitation to tame a horse before the Queen of England! He’s good, he is! Sailed over a week ago. Too bad you missed him. He puts on a show that’s worth seeing.”
The man paused, startled by the stunned look on Bill Dailey’s face. “You don’t have to look so disappointed as all that, mister. He’ll be back soon, the papers say. Maybe you can find out the date by going over to the Fifty-ninth Street Amphitheater. His stable manager’s there. You can’t miss the place. Just keep going across town and you’ll run right into it.”
Bill Dailey picked up his reins. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Thank you very much.”
“Don’t mention it. I know how you feel. It’s magic what he does with horses, something to see!”
After a few minutes’ driving Hank asked his brother, “How do you account for his success here, Bill? They seem to be good horsemen.”
“Fine horses and carriages don’t necessarily make fine horsemen, an’ if New Yorkers have accepted Finn on the little he knows about horse management, I’m stickin’ around myself.”
The 59th Street Amphitheater was the largest building in which Bill and Hank had ever found themselves. The ring was several hundred feet in diameter and towering above it was tier after tier of wooden seats. The stable to the rear held many stalls, most of which were occupied.
They had no trouble finding Finn Caspersen’s manager, for his particular section of the stable carried a large poster over the corridor.
FINN CASPERSEN’S STABLE
BOSS HORSE-TAMER
OF THE WORLD
“Are all these horses Mr. Caspersen’s?” Bill Dailey asked. The stable manager had Finn’s height and heft. There was no doubt in Bill’s mind that between the two of them they would be formidable opposition for almost any horse, especially if they were not particular as to the methods they used.
“Some of ’em,” the man replied cagily in answer to the question. “Some belong to his clients.”
“Clients?” Bill repeated.
“People he’s tamin’ ’em for.”
“Oh.”
“You a friend of Mr. Caspersen’s?”
“We’ve worked together,” Bill admitted.
“Horse-tamin’?”
Bill Dailey nodded.
“What’s your name?” the stable manager asked.
“Dailey … Bill Dailey.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve heard him mention workin’ with you. Guess you know what this is all about then,” he added, taking Bill into his confidence.
Bill nodded again, more encouragingly this time.
“He’ll be sorry he missed you,” the burly man said. “You see, he made up his mind to go to England in pretty much of a hurry. This Lord Oliver wrote to him about a horse called Panic, a mean one. At first Finn turned him down but then Mr. Dancer heard about it.… ”
“Mr. Dancer?” Bill asked. “I don’t believe I know him.”
“I guess you wouldn’t at that. He’s Finn’s new backer. He put up the money to get him started in New York. Anyway, when he heard Lord Oliver wanted Panic tamed before the Queen of England he insisted that they go if only for the publicity.”
“I can understand that … knowing Finn,” Bill said. “I can also understand why he didn’t want to take on such a horse alone.”
“Yeah,” the other agreed knowingly. He turned suddenly to a nearby stall where an ugly brown horse was kicking savagely against the sides. “Quiet!” he shouted angrily.
“Is that horse to be driven by Finn?” Bill asked.
The stable manager grinned. “Him? Finn tames him ’bout twice a week. He’s part of the act.”
“How long do you work on him before he’s exhibited?” Bill asked without meeting the other’s eyes.
“Twenty-four hours without food or water usually does it. Leaves enough fire in him to put on a good show without makin’ it too hard for Finn to get control. He’s a good subject, all right. I guess you an’ Finn never had one as good as him. He’s real ugly-lookin’, scares the daylights out of people.”
Bill Dailey turned away. “No, we didn’t have any like him,” he replied. “C’mon, Hank.”
“I’ll tell Finn you were here,” the stable manager called after them.
“I’ll tell him myself,” Bill answered. “I’m stickin’ around.”
BOSS HORSE-TAMER
13
That same week Bill Dailey rented a small livery stable on 61st Street. He announced to the public through the newspapers that he was prepared to help owners in “the education of their horses.” He offered no extraordinary tricks and did not claim himself to be the “World’s Greatest Horse-Tamer.” Modestly he stated that although he had no more special fitness for this work than most people, having spent much time with horses he had gotten to know their ways and temperament. He could teach owners how best to get along with their horses and make them their friends.
For the first time in Bill Dailey’s career there was little response to his offer of help. This could have been due either to his complete lack of showmanship or to a feeling, on the part of the people of New York City, that they had nothing more to learn from professed horse-tamers. The few who did employ him had horses with simple vices resulting from poor management. Bill had little trouble correcting them and they came and went without fanfare.
The New York Standard said of his work, “Professor Dailey spends more time educating owners than their horses.” Such a statement did not bring more owners knocking on his door, for it seemed that New York horsemen did not like to be taught publicly.
At the end of two weeks Bill said, “I guess New York’s not for us, Hank.”
&n
bsp; “Folks here don’t want to be taught,” his brother agreed. “They want entertainment.”
“Maybe so. At least most of ’em seem to think there’s no controlling a bad horse unless you have some magical powers.”
“We’re farm people,” Hank said. “Let’s go back to those who really want your help and need it.”
“No, I’m stickin’ around to see Finn.”
“What good is it going to do even if you can expose him for what he is?”
“It might help some horses,” Bill replied quietly.
“No one will believe you,” his brother said. “He’s too popular.”
“In a way that’s why intelligent horsemen aren’t coming to us now with their problem horses. They’ve known too many men like Finn Caspersen. They’re scared to trust a good horse to us for treatment. But some people might listen. And if I could prove to ’em …” His voice drifted off and his eyes were half-closed in his planning.
The next day the newspapers carried a glowing account of Finn Caspersen’s conquest of Panic in England.
As Bill said, it sounded exactly as if Finn had written the article himself.
PANIC TAMED
Before the Queen and Royal Family, Prof. Finn Caspersen yesterday subdued the notorious horse Panic, owned by Lord Oliver.
Panic had been vicious from the time he was a colt and was kept for breeding purposes at the Winchester Stud, forty-one miles from London, in a building erected especially for him. He was so vicious that he would scream when anyone approached and would attempt to smash his stall into lucifer matches. No one went near him, for he would destroy every living thing. Visitors used to throw articles into his brick box in order to see him fight. When he was fed or watered, the first procedure for his groom was to ascertain where the enemy stood by thrusting a long pole in the stable door; he would then deposit the food, shut the door and vanish as quickly as possible.
Prof. Caspersen changed all this in a moment, as it were. He ordered the stable door to be thrown open and introduced himself according to his system without delay. In a half-hour the indomitable Panic was ridden by a child, listened tranquilly to the beating of a drum in his ears and stood serene when an umbrella was flourished in his face. Gentle as a lamb, he followed his conqueror around the arena like a dog, stopping when Prof. Caspersen pointed his finger, lying down when told and rising again when permission was given. All these things were done by Panic in a mild, good-humored sort of way, as if the wish to oblige his master was the sole ruling motive.