“Oh, don’t give up,” cried Dyke. “I know that place well; it’s where I found the aardvark, and the bushes are quite open. I am sure we can see them.”
“Well, as you’re so set on it, we’ll try; but mind this, no riding in—nothing rash, you know.”
“Oh, I’ll take care,” cried Dyke. “I shan’t get hurt. You only have to ride right at them, and they’ll run.”
“I don’t know so much about that, old cocksure; but mind this, horses are horses, and I don’t want you to get Breezy clawed.”
“And I don’t want to get him clawed—do I, old merry legs?” cried the boy, bending forward to pat his nag’s neck. “Sooner get scratched myself, wouldn’t I, eh?”
The little horse tossed up its head and shook its mane, and then taking his master’s caress and words to mean a call upon him for fresh effort, he dashed off, and had to be checked.
“Steady, steady, Dyke, boy,” cried Emson; “do you hear?”
“Please sir, it wasn’t me,” replied the boy merrily. “It was him.”
“No nonsense!” cried Emson sternly. “Steady! This is not play.”
Dyke glanced once at his brother’s face as he rode up, and saw that it looked hard, earnest, and firm.