There was a nifty strangle hold she knew which, could she ever get free of that tail end of his Arabian wrapper, she would love to try out on this rough bird. Her fingers, her small, lithe, delicate, steel-like fingers, tingled at the thought.
Even if her nose was red, she determined to try and poke it out into the air. She would gather new strength and see what the chances were for coming out further. Cautiously she screwed her bobbed head about and finally, poor little snail, managed to thrust her face forward and out of the folds that were stifling her. She opened her mouth wide. She took in great gulps of air.
Ah, it was good!
But next she took in several deep gulps of sand as it arose from the flying hoofs of her captor’s single footer.
Ah, not so good!
She became aware of a big, glaring face above her. How terribly it frowned!
“Duckmong, Kid, duckmong!” her captor said sternly and pushed her head back as though she was an India rubber doll.
Such was the awful strength of the man!
And then he squeezed her to him till she feared that Bertie Butternut’s fate would be her own. She felt crushed to the consistency of malted milk.
Who could he be, this demon? Certainly nothing less than the local Zabysko of Biscuit. And it was marvelous the way he managed at the same time his great, big horse and herself as if she were the smallest pony of a ballet.