65° - 01.09.1967, Blaðsíða 29

know the English say that you shouldn’t look a
gift horse in the mouth.”
“I don’t see what looking in its mouth has to
do with it,” she snapped. “It’s feeding its mouth
that’s going to be the trouble.” But it was clear
that she soon reconciled herself to the idea, for
she wasted no time in ringing the number.
She was told that if she presented the ticket at
the Riding Club, the horse would be handed over
at once. On the other hand, the charge for keep-
ing it at the club would be so much a day.
“It’s too much,” she told Jon. “If we can’t find
something cheaper than that, we shall just have
to sell the creature.”
But when the children came home and heard
about the horse, they were highly indignant even
at the suggestion of selling it.
“We’ve always wanted one, and you said we
couldn’t afford it,” cried Jona. “Now we’ve been
given one ... You can’t sell it. Why, it’d ... it’d
be a crime!”
Johann did not take the threat seriously, but
wanted to know when they were going to fetch it.
“When Father’s better, we’ll go into the matter,”
said their mother firmly. “Now we won’t talk any
more about it.”
But of course they did. Indeed, they talked
about little else for the next few days, and Jon
found their intense interest in his health and rate
of recovery embarrassing rather than flattering.
In fact, there was even a hint that he might be
malingering just to plague them.
Meanwhile, Sigga made enquiries through her
friends who had relations in the country not too
far away; telephone calls were made, secretively,
when the children were not at home. And at last
a place was found for the horse at a reasonable
price and a place not too far away from town.
It was arranged that it should be collected and
ridden over the following weekend — provided,
of course, that Jon was up and about then and
fit to make the journey.
“Fit? Of course I’m fit.” he replied to Sigga’s
anxious enquiry when the great day —- “H-day”,
they called it -— finally dawned. It was bright and
cloudless with only the gentlest of breezes ruffling
the clear waters of the lake, and everyone seemed
to look happier and walk more lightly in the sun-
shine on his or her way to work.
Jon did not go to the office on Saturday morn-
ings and generally allowed himself the luxury
of an extra half-hour in bed before getting up
to wash, drink his coffee and read the paper.
After that, he would sometimes go out and wash
the car at one of the petrol stations where taps
and hoses were provided for the purpose — be-
fore running Sigga into town for the rush of last-
minute Saturday shopping. This time, though, he
was up and dressed long before coffee was ready
or the morning paper arrived — even before the
early morning news on the radio -— and was
pacing up and down in the hall like a caged lion
when the children emerged, drowsy-eyed from
last night’s television.
Down by the stables, near the race course, a
small, bowlegged individual received them with
the surliness traditional to grooms, ostlers and
stablemen all the world over. He regarded Jon
with disfavour, took snuff liberally from a horn,
making it clear that his time was his own and he
was not to be hurried by any amateurs or ordinary
pedestrian mortals, however large and shiny their
cars and bank balances. His was the age-old
aristocracy of horsemanship that makes a mount-
ed man the equal of a king.
“Can you ride?” he asked, looking at Jon’s
polished boots.
“Of course,” replied Jon, nettled. He would
liked to have added, “I’m not one of your weekend
cavaliers, my man. I was born and bred up north,
in Hunavatnssysla, in the days when a horse was
a part of everyday life, and not just a hobby for
children and tired business men” — but for some
reason thought better of it. There was just the
tiniest hint of a doubt, deep-rooted in his con-
sciousness like a small worm gnawing at the base
of a tree, that made him hesitate. After all, it
was a long time since he was last in the saddle,
and who could tell what kind of a beast he might
find himself having to deal with? Maybe some
iron-mouthed, spoiled reject of the hiring-stables
that was being unloaded on him; some vicious,
biting, bucking old hack that would do its level
best to unseat him at the first opportunity.
But he would prove himself its match. He
squared his shoulders and gripped his silver-
mounted whip and asked brusquely where the
horse was kept, as he must be on his way.
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