“You always whacked him so,” cried Tom.
“No, I didn’t; I never touched him till he began it. Of course I wanted to ride him and make him pull the sled, and you know how he ran after me and bit me on the back.”
“Yes, I know that somebody must have ill-used him first.”
“I tell you they didn’t. He’s always been petted and spoiled. Why, that day when he kicked me and sent me flying into the straw I’d gone to give him some carrots.”
“But didn’t you tickle him or something?”
“No, I tell you. A nasty ungrateful brute! I’ve given him apples and turnips and bread; one Christmas I gave him a lump of cake; but no matter what you do, the worse he is. He’s a natural savage, father says; and it isn’t safe to go near him without a stick.”
“Well, you’ve told me all that a dozen times,” said Tom maliciously. “It’s only an excuse for ill-using the poor thing.”
“Say that again and I’ll hit you,” cried Dick.
“No, you won’t. Here, give me the harness again and I’ll put it on, only keep back with that stick. That’s what makes him vicious.”
“How clever we are!” cried Dick, handing back the collar. “There: go and try.”