“I—am—really—going, Nat, and I want to settle which horse I shall ride. So please say no more about it.”
Nat took off his hat and scratched his head, his face wrinkling up all over as he followed his young master to the stables, just like one of his own pippins which had been lying in the apple loft all through the winter.
Then, as they reached the door, and Scarlett entered, Nat put on his cap, gave his knee a slap, and with one set of wrinkles disappearing from his countenance to make room for another, like a human dissolving view, he burst out into a low chuckle.
“That’ll knock the wind out of old Samson’s sails! A miserable, cowardly, fat-headed old puddick. He wouldn’t have the courage to do that.”
“Nat!”
“Coming, Master Scar;” and Nat hurried into the stables to find his young master standing beside the light cob his father often rode. “Hullo, Master Scar, sir, thinking about having Moorcock?”
“Yes, Nat. My father is sure not to take him for his charger, and he would suit me exactly.”
“Well, yes, sir, I dare say he would. But why not have Black Adder?”
“Because I thought my father would like him.”
“Nay, sir; master’ll choose Thunder, as sure as can be, and— Hush! Here he is.”