"Then we are better without him. After all, I believe I can remember the way; we can scarcely call it a road. It is in nearly a straight line, is it not?"
"Yes, for about half the distance. Then you come to a place where the track, or way, branches out in two directions. You must take the turn to the right—you'll remember right's right—and go straight on. There is no difficulty."
"Well, then, I'll dispense with Smith's services."
"I should if I were you. It's nice weather, clear and frosty, the snow as hard as any road. You'll find your horses, animated by the fine exhilarating air, will gallop over it splendidly."
"Will you sell me a mount for the boy?" asked Mr. Morton.
"He has his own pony. Of course he will take that."
"May I?" asked Cyril eagerly. "Oh, Mr. Ellison, may I really take Blackie?"
His eyes shone with delight. He had been thinking that morning how hard it would be for him to leave his dear pony, notwithstanding his great happiness.
"Why, of course, Cyril. The pony is your own. I gave it to you long ago," answered Mr. Ellison.
"And he's such a stunning pony, father. He follows me like a dog, and he's never tired; he goes like the wind. And such a beauty! There isn't one like him in England, I'm sure; at least, I don't think there can be."