The next morning, however, our rough-rider was as full of “spirits” and bounce as ever; yet he looked “full of riding” as he turned out in jack-boots, clean white moleskin breeches, blue shirt, a silk handkerchief of the same colour round his throat and a serviceable old “cabbage-tree” hat on his head; it was evident, though, that his nerves were not very fit, when the horse was at length saddled.
“Too shaky about the hands,” whispered Burns.
And sure enough at the third “buck,” “Satan” proved the victor by sending his rider into a bunch at one corner of the stockyard.
“I never knew a horse shape like that of all I’ve crossed,” swore the discomfited rider, as soon as he could get his wind.
“Never mind,” laughed Burns, “when he’s fresh to-morrow, I’ll mount my friend on him, and we’ll all go and see the fun.”
“What! that bloke with the black beard, what had never heard tell on a ‘kid’—he ride! I’ll bet you five notes he don’t sit him as long as I did.”
“Done with you,” cried Burns, who had long since seen that the man ranked amongst the common class of “blowers,” or “braggarts,” peculiar to his profession in the colony.
The next day Mat was up early, and meeting Burns, told him that as there was a bet on his riding, he must take a “stretch” with another horse first, or he could not answer for keeping his seat.
So a hot-looking chestnut was saddled, Mat straightway mounted and disappeared into the Bush.
When he returned a couple of hours later, he said to Tim, as he threw himself out of the saddle, “The greatest treat I’ve had for years; felt like a man again on that horse, but he’s a hot ’un, and no mistake.”