“I should say Mr Trask, George,” said Beryl.
The correction was received with a lordly contempt, as the young rascal went on—
“Can you sit a bucking horse, Mr Holt?”
“Did you ever hear what the man said when he was asked if he could open oysters, George?” I said.
“No. What?”
“I’ve never tried.”
He looked puzzled, then annoyed. Beryl and Iris broke into a peal of laughter.
“Don’t see where any joke comes in,” he grunted. “But why not have a try now, Mr Holt? There’s Bontebok up in the stable. He always bucks when you first get on him. I’ll go and tell Sixpence to saddle him up just now.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, George,” pronounced Iris decisively. “You’re a great deal too cheeky. I wonder Mr Holt stands it. Besides, we want him to go out with us.”
That dear little girl! I was fond of her already, but more than ever now that she had come to my rescue in that whole-hearted and tactful fashion. For I did not want to make an exhibition of myself and furnish forth a circus entertainment with Beryl for audience; and it would have been difficult, unaided, to have backed out of what was in effect a challenge, without jeopardising my reputation.