He vaulted over the gate, and whistling to a fine collie who came bounding to meet him, walked slowly on towards the stables.
"Hulloa, John!" and a boy about two years his junior threw himself off a horse reeking with foam. "Rub Sultan down a bit like a good fellow. There'll be the worst kind of a row if the governor sees him in this pickle."
John Randolph looked indignantly at the handsome horse, as he stood with drooping head and wide distended nostrils, while the white foam dripped over his delicate legs.
"Serve you right if there were!" and his voice was full of scorn.
"You're about as fit to handle horseflesh as an Esquimaux."
"Oh, pish! You're a regular old grandmother, John. There's nothing to make such a row about." And Reginald Hawthorne turned upon his heel.
John threw off coat and vest, and, rolling up his sleeves, led the exhausted horse to the currying ground. Reginald followed slowly, his hands in his pockets.
"How did you get him into such a mess?" he asked shortly.
"I don't know, I didn't do anything to him," and Reginald kicked the gravel discontentedly. "I believe he's getting lazy."
"Sultan lazy!" and John laughed incredulously. "That's a good joke! Why, he is the freest horse on the place!"
"Well, I don't know how else to explain it. He's been on the go pretty steadily, but what's a horse good for? Thursday afternoon we had our cross-country run and the ground was horribly stiff. I thought he had sprained his off foreleg for he limped a good deal on the home stretch, but he seemed to limber up all right the last few miles. I was sorry not to let him rest yesterday; would have put him in better trim I suppose for to-day's twenty mile pull,—but Cartwright and Peterson wanted to make up a tandem, and when they asked for Sultan I didn't like to refuse. They are heavy swells, and you know father wants me to get in with that lot. But that shouldn't have hurt him. They only went as far as Brighton. What's fifteen miles to a horse!"