He leaped frantically for the saddle, scorning the stirrups, landing broadside but with sufficient nervous energy in reserve to scramble on and upward into the seat. Once there, he kicked the animal in the flanks with both heels, clutching with his knees and reaching for the bridle rein in the same motion. The horse plunged obediently, but came to a stop with a jerk that almost unseated the rider; the sapling swayed; the good but forgotten rein held firm.
“Ha!” gasped his lordship as the horrid truth became clear to him.
“Charge, Bonaparte!” shouted the man in the road.
“Soldiers?” cried the rider with a wild look among the trees.
“My dog,” called back the other. “He charges at the word.”
“Well, you know, I saw service in the army,” apologized his lordship, with a pale smile. “Get ep!” to the horse.
“What's your hurry?” asked Shaw, grinning broadly as he came up to the log.
“Don't—don't you dare to step over that log,” shouted Bazelhurst.
“All right. I see. But, after all, what's the rush?” The other was puzzled for the moment.
“I'm practising, sir,” he said unsteadily. “How to mount on a run, demmit. Can't you see?”