“Oh, Willy!” I cried, “I’m afraid you’ll never get her over now that the bank is broken.”
But Willy was already too much occupied with Alaska to make any reply. She refused several times, but finally, yielding to the inevitable, she threw herself rather than jumped off the bank, and the next moment she and Willy were in the ditch.
I was terrified as to the consequences, and was much relieved when I saw Willy, black from head to foot, crawl from the mare’s back on to the more solid mud of the bank on our side. Without a word he caught Alaska by the head, and began to try and pull her out. His extraordinary appearance, and the fact that he was much too angry to be in the least conscious of its absurdity, had the disastrous effect of reducing both Mr. O’Neill and me to helpless laughter.
“I am very sorry, Willy,” I panted, “and I am delighted you’re not hurt; but if you could only see yourself!”
Willy silently continued his efforts.
“Oh, Mr. O’Neill, do get down and help him,” I continued.
“I don’t want any help, thank you,” returned my cousin, with restrained fury. “Come up out of that, you brute!”—applying his hunting-crop with vigour to the recumbent Alaska, who thereupon, with two or three violent efforts, heaved herself out of the slough. All this time Mr. O’Neill had been grinning with that unfeigned delight which all hunting-men seem to derive from the misfortunes of their friends.
“You have toned down that new coat, Willy,” he remarked; “and I must say the little mare takes to water like an otter.”
“Oh, I dare say it’s very funny indeed!” retorted Willy, leading Alaska on to the higher ground where we were standing; “but if you’d an eye in your head you’d see the mare is dead lame.”
“By George! so she is. That’s hard luck. She must have given herself a strain.”