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A LITTLE CHILD

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THE decision that the governess-cart must be given up meant that a new owner for Polly must be found.

Polly is a roan pony, and she had been with us (this is my neighbour’s story, not mine: a very charming neighbour who keeps her temper at croquet)—Polly had been with us so long as to become, as ponies peculiarly can, a member of the family, so that to part with her savoured of treachery. Necessity, however, knows no law and nourishes no memory, and the distasteful preparations were therefore begun.

The first was the framing of the advertisement; which is not the simple matter that it might appear to be, because so much depends upon the choice of adjective. The selected word must both allure and (in our case) keep within the bounds of truth. What are the qualities most valued in a pony, we had to ask ourselves. Celerity? Polly was fixed in her determination not to exceed the speed limit, at any rate on outward journeys. Willingness? Polly could be desperately stubborn. Strength? Yes, she was strong. Youth? Well, she came to us ten years ago and she was no foal then. After much serious deliberation, compared with which Versailles Conferences are mere exchanges of persiflage, it was decided to describe Polly either as “strong useful pony” or “useful strong pony”. Further deliberations fixed the phrase as “Pony, strong, useful,” and the advertisement was dispatched to the local rag, as our very worthy county chronicle is too often called.

Next came the question of what price was to be asked. Here expert opinion was resorted to, in the shape of Mr. Edmead, the butcher. No one knows more about ponies than butchers do, and Mr. Edmead is exceptionally wise.

“Taking everything into consideration,” he said, “I think that twenty-five pounds would be a fair price.”

We clung to each other for support. Twenty-five pounds! And we had given only nine pounds all those years ago. Why had we not made pony-breeding a hobby? The War, Mr. Edmead went on to explain, had rendered ponies more valuable. Yes, taking everything into consideration, twenty-five pounds was a fair price. We ought to get that. In fact, if he had been in need of a pony he would have given that himself; but just then he was well supplied, and Polly was, he feared, not quite fast enough for him. Good morning.

Men who want to buy a pony have a strong resemblance to each other. They are clean-shaven and wear hard round hats, and the collars of their overcoats are carelessly treated so that they are half up and half down. They carry sticks. Also, although they want a pony, they don’t want one at quite such a figure. All the men who came to see Polly were furthermore alike in agreeing that she was no doubt a useful strong pony, even a strong useful pony, but she was not for them. Day after day Polly was examined. They opened her mouth and shook their heads, they felt her knees and her hocks, they looked at her with narrow eyes from near by and from far, they rattled their sticks in their hard hats, they gave her sudden cuts and prods. But they didn’t buy.

We began to get desperate. Much as we esteemed Polly, now that she was to be sold we wanted to be rid of her. Things should be done quickly. And then came a market gardener, a large, rubicund, genial man named Fox. And Polly was again led forth and again subjected to every test known to pony-buyers. All was going well, and would have gone well, but for Vivian. Who, you ask, is Vivian, what is he? Vivian is a small boy who had known Polly intimately all his life, and who by some mischance wandered out from his lessons in the morning-room at the precise moment when Mr. Fox, who obviously was attracted by Polly, was making up his mind to pay the full money. Vivian, I should explain, is one of those ingratiating little boys who look upon the world as a sphere existing solely to provide them with friends, and who attach themselves with the strongest bands to open-air manual labourers. No sooner did Vivian see Mr. Fox’s benevolent features than he added him to his collection.

“Run away, Vivian,” I said. “It’s not play-time yet, and we’re busy.”

“Are you going to buy Polly?” Vivian asked Mr. Fox by way of a suitable rejoinder to my command.

“I was thinking about it,” said Mr. Fox, adding to me, “How old do you call her, ma’am? She looks to me about twelve.”

The figure was so low that I nodded assent, but Vivian spoilt it by exclaiming, “Oh, mother, and Mr. Brooks says she’s seventeen if she’s a day; and I’m sure she’s a day.”

Mr. Fox became thoughtful. “Mr. Brooks said that, did he?” he remarked.

I felt that I couldn’t tell Vivian again to go in, because it would look as though I feared his frankness; which, to be candid, I did. All I could do was to hope for the best.

“She’s quiet enough; used to traffic and all that?” Mr. Fox asked.

Then Vivian began to laugh. This trick of laughter over retrospection—chewing the cud of old jokes—we have always rather admired in him; his chuckles are very engaging; but now I trembled, and not without reason.

“Don’t you remember, mother,” he began, “that day when she was frightened by the traction engine and ran into the grocer’s shop?”

Mr. Fox, in whose large hand my son’s minute one was now reposing, looked grave.

“That’s against her in my business,” he said.

“Oh, but,” I explained, “that was a very long time ago. She’s quite steady now. Don’t you remember, Vivian, it was on your fifth birthday?”

“No,” said Vivian, “that was on my seventh birthday—something funny always happens on my birthdays,” he explained to Mr. Fox—“it was on my fifth birthday that Polly fell down.”

“She’s been down, has she?” said Mr. Fox ominously.

The rest of it is too tragic. I had no intention of concealing anything; Mr. Edmead knew the pony’s whole history when he valued her; but Vivian’s presence made me nervous, painfully self-conscious; I felt my face burning and knew that I must be crimson.

Mr. Fox, I will admit, played the game. He asked Vivian no questions; indeed, he talked of other things than defective ponies; but I could see his mind working; I could see pound after pound dropping away from the grand total.

Well, that’s the story. Mr. Fox led Polly away some ten minutes later, leaving in her stead a cheque. But it was not for twenty-five pounds—Vivian saw to that.

The moral? The moral is: when your husband is in Mesopotamia and the time comes to sell the pony, lock your cherubic offspring in the nursery.