“Quite a savage, then,” said Sir James.
“Oh, yes; I suppose he is a pure-blooded black, and knows the country well. Let me see, we must turn down in this direction, I think. Yes—pass that corrugated iron shed-like house—to be sure, that’s it—and there’s the man the ponies belong to.”
He nodded in the direction of a little keen-looking man who appeared rather mushroom-like, thanks to the well-worn, broad-leafed felt hat he wore. He was leaning over a rough enclosure in which four ponies were browsing, and keenly watching the approaching party as he smoked.
As soon as he realised that they were coming in his direction he took his pipe from his mouth, tapped the ashes out upon a post, took off his hat and stuck the short pipe in the band.
“Come to have a look at the ponies, gentlemen?” he said.
“Yes,” said Sir James; “I want my son and nephew to have a look at them and try them.”
“I see,” said the man, scanning the boys attentively. “My man isn’t here. Like them saddled and bridled?”
Sir James looked at the two boys, as the man continued, “Can the young gentlemen ride?”
He glanced at the doctor as he spoke.
“Yes,” said the latter quietly; “after our fashion in England. Well broken horses. But they can’t ride wild beasts.”