Clare gently released the other horn, but kept his hold of the first, moving the creature’s head by it, this way and that. A moment more and he turned his face to the company, which had scattered a little. When the inflamed eyes of Nimrod came into view, they scattered wider. Clare still made the bull feel his hand on his horn, and kept speaking to him gently and lovingly. Nimrod eyed his enemies, for such plainly he counted them, as if he wished he were a lion that he might eat as well as kill them. At the same time he seemed to regard them with triumph, saying in his big heart, “Ha! ha! you did not know what a friend I had! Here he is, come in the nick of time! I thought he would!” Clare proceeded to untie the ropes from the ring in his nose. The man with the pitchfork interfered.
Clare proceeds to untie the ropes from the ring in the bull’s nose.
“That wonnot do!” he said, and laid his hand on Clare’s arm. “Would you send him ramping over the country, and never a hold to have on him?”
“It wasn’t much good when you had a hold on him—was it now?” returned the boy. “Where do you want to take him?”
“That’s my business,” answered the man sulkily.
“I fancy you’ll find it’s mine!” returned Clare. “But there he is! Take him.”
The man hesitated.
“Then leave me to manage him,” said Clare.
A murmur of approbation arose. The caravan people felt he knew what he was saying. They believed he had power with the bull.