“If ever there was a genial horse it’s ‘The Padre’. Whatever happens, you feel that you simply can’t lose your temper whilst you’re riding him, he would be so shocked and hurt.”
“You should mount Tynan on him, then,” suggested Ted, in allusion to a brother ensign, a lad of seventeen, who rarely omitted to include a few blackguardly oaths in his conversation.
“That little wretch! I wouldn’t allow him to touch ‘The Padre’, even with his gloves on. I shall be kicking that sweet youth one of these days—hard! I wish he would see the advisability of exchanging into some other regiment.”
“The Padre” was a gray four-year-old thoroughbred; a compact horse, to whose bold, friendly, wide-apart eyes Ted at once took a liking. His long lean head and well-shaped neck, firmly set on good sloping shoulders, augured a first-class chaser, as did also his powerful back and loins, strong quarters, and short flat feet. Ted looked him over, and knew enough to appreciate these points, and was also glad to notice that there was plenty of length from hip to hock.
“The last half-mile of the course is downhill,” Markham informed him, “and that is where ‘The Padre’s’ shoulders will come in.”
Ted mounted the gray, and almost before his knees had gripped the saddle he felt that he had never been on so noble a beast before. He trotted and cantered up and down the parade-ground before giving the horse his head, and then returned to the owner flushed and joyful.
The captain’s eyes twinkled.
“You’ll do, I think, Russell; I can easily see that you like one another.”
“He’s just grand!” was the boy’s enthusiastic comment.