"He is angry; he is putting his ears back; look out, Inger Johanne!" called Karsten.
"Pooh—do you think I mind that?" I climbed up on the calf-pen. For a moment I wondered whether I should try to stand on the horse at once. I put out my foot and touched him—no, he was so smooth and slippery, it would certainly be best to sit the first time I got on a horse. I gave a little jump, and there I sat.
O dear! What in the world was happening? I didn't know, but I thought the horse had gone crazy. First he stood on his fore legs with his hind legs in the air, and then on his hind legs, and threw me off as if I were nothing at all. I fell across the edge of the calf-pen—oh, what a whack my arm got! I literally couldn't move it for a whole minute; and there was a grand rumpus in the barn; some of the horses got up and whinnied, and the black one that I had sat on kicked and kicked with his hind legs every instant.
I could just see the top of Karsten's head at the hole now.
"Oh, Karsten—Karsten."
"Are you dead, Inger Johanne?"
I don't really know how I got out through the hole with my injured arm. But outside of the barn I sat down right among all the nettles and cried.
When I went into the house there was a great commotion. Everybody was scared and the doctor was sent for. My sleeve was cut up to the shoulder, and the doctor said I had broken a small bone in my wrist, and besides had sprained and bruised my arm about as much as I could.
"You do everything so thoroughly, Inger Johanne," said the doctor.
When I was in bed with my arm in splints and bandages, I began to cry violently. Not so much because of my arm—though I cried a little about that, too—but most that I should have thought I could run away from Father and Mother, who were so good. I told Mother the whole thing.