It was Saturday morning and I was pulling the calash across the main thoroughfare. The young master preferred the calash, it was fast and had a fold-away cover in case the rain stopped. He preferred me for much the same reason, I was responsive to the reigns and quick on slippery cobbles. “Oh the way Ginny maneuvers!” he would boast to the other young men, “I’d take her over any thoroughbred.” I feel much the same, for all a horse needs to be happy is a kind master. Anyhow, it was morning, and we were crossing the road with the clock tower. Horses, carriages, and carts were weaving this way and that and a policeman stood in the middle, playing a song on his whistle while he danced. A white stallion was coming towards us, pulling a brougham. If the color of him had not been enough to get my attention, his high action and rolling eyes would have. “Is that not Miss Eloise’s carriage?” my master twisted in his seat, “She must have got a new horse. What a beauty.” I would