Faithful to friendship as to wrestling, Mike had replied and meant it:
“Sure, there never was man under sun so fine as yourself the morn, Dennis, me lad.”
Carlota felt really touched and grateful as she cried:
“All gray, with that pretty white blaze on his face! What is his name, dear Dennis?”
“Name is it? If he has one, ’tis more nor I know. Let me lift ye on, please.”
She could easily have stepped into the low saddle, but she recognized that he wished to “swing her up,” as Miguel used to do upon some of the spirited horses at Refugio; so she let him lift her, all clumsily and delightedly, and settled herself in her place with a laugh of satisfaction.
“He’s lovely! He shall be called Connemara, for your home. It’s a pretty long name for a pretty small beast, but what he lacks in size he makes up in his cog-cognomen. That’s right, I think.”
It was entirely right to the happy donor.
“Connemara, says she. Hear to it, all. Connemara, for me own purty home. Sure it’s proud am I—”
A shriek—a chorus of voices broke in upon his happiness: