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 Finnon 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
“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 Finnon 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
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