“I don’t know yet,” said the lad, struggling up.
“Where did he kick you?” cried Dick, full of sympathy now for his friend.
“He didn’t kick me at all,” said Tom dolefully. “I was holding the collar right out and he kicked that, but it hit me bang in the front and hurt ever so.”
“Let me take the harness; I’ll get it on him.”
“No, I won’t,” cried Tom viciously. “I will do it now. Here, give me that stick.”
“Why, I thought you said I ill-used him!”
“And I’ll ill-use him too,” said Tom savagely, “if he doesn’t come and have on his collar. Now, then, you, sir, come here,” cried Tom sharply.
By this time the donkey had trotted to another corner of the yard, where he stood with his heels presented to his pursuers, and as first one and then the other made a dash at his head he slewed himself round and kicked out fiercely.
“This is a nice game,” cried Dick at last, when they were both getting hot with the exercise of hunting the animal from corner to corner, and then leaping backward or sidewise to avoid his heels, “Now, just you tell me this, who could help walloping such a brute? Hold still will you!”
But Solomon—a name, by the way, which was given him originally from its resemblance to “Solemn-un,” the latter having been applied to him by Hickathrift—refused to hold still. In fact he grew more energetic and playful every minute, cantering round the yard and dodging his pursuers in a way which would have done credit to a well-bred pony, and the chances of getting the collar on or bit into his mouth grew more and more remote.