“Not you. Up you go. There. Now that is better. Stick on this time.”
“I could if I had stirrups,” I said, “and a saddle.”
“No, you couldn’t, sir, so don’t talk nonsense. You’ve just learnt the finest thing a lad who wants to ride can learn—the thing that gives him plenty of confidence.”
“What’s that?” I asked; “that it’s very hard to keep on?”
“No; that it’s very easy to come off and roll on the ground without hurting yourself a bit. Off you go again. Forward—trot!”
The horse snorted and went on, shaking me almost to pieces, and sometimes I was nearly off on one side, sometimes nearly off on the other, but I kept on.
“Right wheel!” came from the other end of the field, then, “Right wheel!” again. “Forward!” and the horse was taking me—for I had nothing whatever to do with him—back toward where the sergeant stood.
I kept my balance pretty well, but my trousers were running up my legs, and I felt as if everything belonging to me was shaken up. Then once more my balance was gone, and off I went on to my back, and over and over a few yards from the sergeant, who ran up, the horse once more stopping short by my side.
“Bravo!” cried Lomax, as I sat up. “You’re getting on.”
“I thought I was getting off,” I said dolefully.