realized he had used them. Once when I accused him of cursing he looked at me very hurt and said, “I
never
curse.”
Where my language was concerned he would not permit even the mildest slang. “Gosh” and “golly” were not at all to his liking, nor “gee,” “dern,” or “darn.” One day I thought I had found one that would surely get by without violating Dr. Carver’s code. I had read it in the paper and anxiously awaited my chance to use it. It finally came one evening when we were sitting on the front porch of the boarding-house, talking to some people. Someone made a flat statement and I said, “Banana oil!”
Immediately Dr. Carver turned to me. “Haven’t I told you
never
to use such language?” “Well,” I said, “what in the world
can
I say?” He replied, “You may say, ‘Oh, my word.’” It occurred to me later that perhaps he wanted me to stay apart from other people not so much to provide an air of mystery as to keep me with him to see to his comforts. If this was so, it was too late by the time I caught on. I was too fond of him and too proud of his pride in me to take an independent stand.
That first summer was memorable principally for working with three of the horses. Lightning and John had gone off with Al and the new rider, but we kept Klatawah, Judas, and Snow.
Klatawah’s name was Indian, meaning either “Go to hell” or “Go away,” depending on the inflection. He was a chestnut sorrel gelding weighing about 1250 pounds, and his conformation was perfect. From stories I had heard, he had apparently been quite a devil in his younger days, but when I knew him he had settled down, which is not to say that he didn’t have plenty of spirit; and he was the greatest showman of all the diving horses I have ever known.
He reminded me of a temperamental Shakespearean actor, the only difference being that a Shakespearean actor loves an intelligent audience and Klatawah loved a big one. His manner when working for a small crowd was so different as to make him seem two horses instead of one. When the crowd was small his whole body and every action seemed to radiate disgust. A person could almost feel his thoughts— “To think that I, Klatawah, the great diving horse—a star!—should be forced to work for such a miserable handful of people.”
At such times he would flop over against the right side of the tower in a sort of reclining position, and instead of counting out his age vigorously at the edge of the platform, he would give vent to his disgust by making a few lazy scrapes at the pad, as if wiping his foot on a door mat. Then, more often than not, he would take off without bothering to straighten out of that absurd half-reclining position. This was hard on the rider, since it invariably caused a friction burn anywhere from the ankle to the knee, and I was forced finally to wear elastic ankle and knee bands to protect myself when I rode him.
Klatawah’s style was the extreme plunge, which, according to definitions propounded by Dr. Carver, meant that when he took off he exerted the greatest pressure with his forelegs. This sent his body out in a lunging motion that was not as beautiful to watch as other diving styles, but Klatawah could make it spectacular because he worked with such fire.
The instant he realized the crowd was large he would begin to prance. Up would go the ears, and the beautiful arch in his neck would become more pronounced. When he worked like this the crowd always applauded with extra enthusiasm, and he loved the applause. In fact, as I was to learn later, he seemed actually to be jealous when another act got applause. Once while we were appearing in Atlantic City it was customary to bring the horses from their stables and keep them backstage until time for the dive. When the audience applauded an act working out front, the applause could be heard backstage. Klatawah would lift his head high in the air, listen intently, and then whinny, as if to say,
never
curse.”
Where my language was concerned he would not permit even the mildest slang. “Gosh” and “golly” were not at all to his liking, nor “gee,” “dern,” or “darn.” One day I thought I had found one that would surely get by without violating Dr. Carver’s code. I had read it in the paper and anxiously awaited my chance to use it. It finally came one evening when we were sitting on the front porch of the boarding-house, talking to some people. Someone made a flat statement and I said, “Banana oil!”
Immediately Dr. Carver turned to me. “Haven’t I told you
never
to use such language?” “Well,” I said, “what in the world
can
I say?” He replied, “You may say, ‘Oh, my word.’” It occurred to me later that perhaps he wanted me to stay apart from other people not so much to provide an air of mystery as to keep me with him to see to his comforts. If this was so, it was too late by the time I caught on. I was too fond of him and too proud of his pride in me to take an independent stand.
That first summer was memorable principally for working with three of the horses. Lightning and John had gone off with Al and the new rider, but we kept Klatawah, Judas, and Snow.
Klatawah’s name was Indian, meaning either “Go to hell” or “Go away,” depending on the inflection. He was a chestnut sorrel gelding weighing about 1250 pounds, and his conformation was perfect. From stories I had heard, he had apparently been quite a devil in his younger days, but when I knew him he had settled down, which is not to say that he didn’t have plenty of spirit; and he was the greatest showman of all the diving horses I have ever known.
He reminded me of a temperamental Shakespearean actor, the only difference being that a Shakespearean actor loves an intelligent audience and Klatawah loved a big one. His manner when working for a small crowd was so different as to make him seem two horses instead of one. When the crowd was small his whole body and every action seemed to radiate disgust. A person could almost feel his thoughts— “To think that I, Klatawah, the great diving horse—a star!—should be forced to work for such a miserable handful of people.”
At such times he would flop over against the right side of the tower in a sort of reclining position, and instead of counting out his age vigorously at the edge of the platform, he would give vent to his disgust by making a few lazy scrapes at the pad, as if wiping his foot on a door mat. Then, more often than not, he would take off without bothering to straighten out of that absurd half-reclining position. This was hard on the rider, since it invariably caused a friction burn anywhere from the ankle to the knee, and I was forced finally to wear elastic ankle and knee bands to protect myself when I rode him.
Klatawah’s style was the extreme plunge, which, according to definitions propounded by Dr. Carver, meant that when he took off he exerted the greatest pressure with his forelegs. This sent his body out in a lunging motion that was not as beautiful to watch as other diving styles, but Klatawah could make it spectacular because he worked with such fire.
The instant he realized the crowd was large he would begin to prance. Up would go the ears, and the beautiful arch in his neck would become more pronounced. When he worked like this the crowd always applauded with extra enthusiasm, and he loved the applause. In fact, as I was to learn later, he seemed actually to be jealous when another act got applause. Once while we were appearing in Atlantic City it was customary to bring the horses from their stables and keep them backstage until time for the dive. When the audience applauded an act working out front, the applause could be heard backstage. Klatawah would lift his head high in the air, listen intently, and then whinny, as if to say,
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