Adams often told the story of the doctor's first ride after him:
how, at the end of a mile, he had turned his pale face to the
horse-dealer who was driving, and piteously besought him: "In
mercy's name, man, let me get out; I've had enough of this!" But
all this was enveloped in the haze of the remote past, and now Job
was neither a dangerous nor exhilarating steed, but rather, a
restful one, who allowed his driver to contemplate the landscape
and impress its charms upon his memory. Job had been twenty-three
years old when the doctor handed him over to his wife; and, as if
to prove his relationship to the family, and to Aunt Jane in
particular, he had never advanced a year in age since then, but,
long, long afterwards, his headstone bore the legend:
IN MEMORY OF
JOB TROTTER,
A FAITHFUL FRIEND,
WHO DIED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE.
A rear view of Job still showed him a fine-looking horse, for his
delicate skin, slightly dappled here and there, his long, thick
tail and proudly arching neck plainly betokened his aristocracy.
But unfortunately, reckless driving in his youth had bent his fore
legs to a decided angle, and turned in his toes in an absurdly
deprecating fashion, until Mrs.
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