"What's that?" asks Jacky's mamma, somewhat anxiously—if a careless, it must be to her credit said, that Julia is a very kindly mother, and is now rather upset by Mr. Browne's mysterious declaration.
"You ought to know; you gave it to him," declares he. "He's sitting on it anyhow."
"Really, Dicky, we must ask you to explain yourself," says Sir Mark, with dignity.
"Why, it's only a donkey," says Dulce, "and Jacky is riding him."
"Just so," says Mr. Browne, equably; "and a very large donkey, too; I always call them facts because they are stubborn things. At least, that one is, because I rode it yesterday—at least I tried to—and it behaved very ill indeed. It's—it's a very nasty animal, and painfully unamiable."
"What did it do to you?" asks Julia, who is again in secret fear about her first born, who every moment draws more near.
"Well, I got on him, incited thereto by Jacky and the Boodie, and when I had beaten him unceasingly for a full quarter of an hour, in the vain hope of persuading him to undertake even a gentle walk, he turned treacherously to the right, and squeezed my best leg against the garden wall. I bore it heroically, because I knew the Boodie was regarding me sternly, but I could have wept bitterly; I don't know if all walls are the same, but the garden wall hurts very much."
"I wonder where Dicky gets all his stories," says Dulce, admiringly.
"He evolves them out of his inner consciousness," replies Sir Mark.
Meantime, Jacky draws nearer and nearer. He advances on the donkey—and on them, at a furious pace. Surely, never was a lazy ass so ridden before! Perhaps those watching him are under the impression that when closer to them he will guide his steed to their right or to their left, or at least steer clear of them in some way, but if so they are mistaken.