Moriarty hit the donkey a blow on the ribs with his blackthorn stick just as a drummer strikes a drum, with somewhat of the same result as to sound, and the vehicle started.
Mr. French had trained a good many winners, and Moriarty was Mr. French's factotum in stable matters; what Moriarty did not know about horses would be scarcely worth mentioning.
Very few men know the true inwardness of a horse--what he can do under these circumstances and under those, his spirit, his reserve force, his genius.
A horse is much more than an animal on four legs. Legs are the least things that win a race, though essential enough, no doubt. It is the soul and spirit of the beast that brings the winner along the last laps of the Rowley Mile, that strews the field behind at Tattenham Corner, that, with one supreme effort, gains victory at the winning-post by a neck.
It is this intuitive knowledge of the psychology of a horse that makes a great trainer or a great jockey.
Moriarty was possessed of this knowledge, but he was possessed of many other qualities as well. He could turn his hand to anything--rabbit catching, rearing pheasants, snaring birds, doctoring dogs, carpentry.
"Moriarty!" said Miss French, when they were out of earshot of the house.
Moriarty made no reply, but struck the donkey another drum-sounding blow on the ribs, and, pulling at its bridle, turned the vehicle in the direction indicated.
"You'll be afther loosin' thim things," said Moriarty, without turning his head, as he toiled beside the donkey up the steep cliff path.
"I don't care if I do," said Miss French. "Besides, we can pick them up as we go back. Come off!"
She was apostrophising the boa. The big hat, the flap of which, falling on the ground, had drawn Moriarty's attention, was now followed by the boa, and Miss French, free of her lendings all but the cloak, sat up, a much more presentable and childlike figure, the wind blowing amid her curls, and her brown, seaweed-coloured eyes full of light and mischief.
"Now, Moriarty," said Miss French, when she had cleared herself sufficiently for action, "gimme the reins."
Moriarty unwisped the reins from the saddle of the harness and placed them in the small hands of his mistress, who, as an afterthought, had unlatched the Tara brooch and slipped off the cloak.