Chap­ter 36: The Sun­day Cab begins with a polite but firm refusal. When Mr. Brig­gs asks Jer­ry to dri­ve him to church on Sun­days, Jer­ry declines, explain­ing that his license lim­its him to six days of work each week. But the rea­son goes beyond reg­u­la­tion. Years of work­ing non­stop wore Jer­ry down phys­i­cal­ly and spir­i­tu­al­ly, and the same held true for his hors­es. After mak­ing the switch to a six-day license, he gained back not just ener­gy, but dig­ni­ty. Sun­days became sacred—not only for wor­ship but also for rest, fam­i­ly time, and car­ing for Black Beau­ty. He knew the cost in earn­ings, yet he felt rich­er for the peace it brought. While oth­ers might view rest as idle­ness, Jer­ry sees it as protection—for his health, his rela­tion­ships, and his ani­mals. That con­vic­tion gives his work mean­ing and his days struc­ture.

Not every­one agrees. Some cab­men mock his deci­sion, think­ing it fool­ish to let a wealthy client slip away over a sin­gle day’s work. But Jer­ry holds his ground. He remem­bers too well the toll that end­less labor took on his body, his mar­riage, and the well­be­ing of his hors­es. Pol­ly sup­ports him whole­heart­ed­ly, recall­ing how she once bare­ly saw her hus­band when every day was filled with urgent trips and exhaust­ed nights. Their chil­dren, now hap­pi­er and health­i­er, are anoth­er rea­son to guard that day of rest. To Jer­ry and Pol­ly, mon­ey is impor­tant, but not at the cost of fam­i­ly. In a world that con­stant­ly demands more, say­ing no becomes an act of self-respect. They take pride in doing their job well—just not at the price of los­ing them­selves in it. Their neigh­bors may not under­stand, but their home is more peace­ful now, and their prin­ci­ples remain firm.

Jerry’s con­ver­sa­tion with Tru­man, a fel­low cab­man, offers a moment of mutu­al under­stand­ing. Tru­man, though not as vocal, admits that Jerry’s rea­son­ing makes sense. He, too, has felt the exhaus­tion creep into his bones and has begun to won­der if rest might be worth more than an extra fare. Their qui­et dia­logue shows that change often begins in moments of reflec­tion, not con­fronta­tion. Jer­ry doesn’t preach—he lives the exam­ple. And slow­ly, those around him begin to notice the dif­fer­ence. Black Beau­ty, too, ben­e­fits from this rhythm. Unlike oth­er cab hors­es who nev­er catch a break, he gets one day each week to breathe, recov­er, and regain strength. It’s a small kind­ness that speaks vol­umes about Jerry’s char­ac­ter.

Finan­cial con­se­quences do fol­low. Mrs. Brig­gs, dis­pleased by Jerry’s refusal to dri­ve on Sun­days, with­draws her busi­ness. But Jer­ry accepts this loss with calm. He believes that the cus­tomers who val­ue hon­esty and reli­a­bil­i­ty will return. More impor­tant­ly, he refus­es to com­pro­mise for con­ve­nience. Pol­ly reminds him how emp­ty their lives felt before they carved out space for rest and pur­pose. That mem­o­ry anchors them, even when income becomes uncer­tain. Their com­mit­ment doesn’t come from stubbornness—it’s ground­ed in a clear under­stand­ing of what mat­ters most. Jer­ry knows that true well-being isn’t mea­sured by the mon­ey in hand but by the health of body, mind, and soul. His hors­es are less strained, his chil­dren more cheer­ful, and his home filled with a qui­et joy.

This chap­ter stands as a med­i­ta­tion on integri­ty in a world often dri­ven by urgency and prof­it. Jer­ry and Pol­ly resist a lifestyle that demands con­stant out­put, choos­ing instead a rhythm that includes pause and reflec­tion. Their choice chal­lenges a cul­ture where rest is under­val­ued, remind­ing read­ers that lim­its are not signs of weak­ness, but of wis­dom. The well-being of hors­es like Black Beau­ty mir­rors the well-being of their humans; both thrive when giv­en time to recov­er. Rest is not laziness—it is care. And care, in all its forms, builds strength that lasts longer than any wage. This sto­ry, through Jerry’s qui­et resolve, teach­es that say­ing no is some­times the most gen­er­ous act one can offer to one­self, to fam­i­ly, and to the ani­mals who trust us every day.