“But we are not fox-hunters, Darrell,” said the captain sternly.
“No, sir; but, as my father said, soldiers ride in that stiff, balanced way, and have no grip of the saddle,[[1]] and if a regiment was put at a stiff fence and ditch, no end would come off.”
[1] This has been greatly altered now. Our cavalry ride with shorter stirrups and in better style.
“You had better give Sergeant Stubbs some lessons, Mr Darrell,” said the captain haughtily, “and if they turn out satisfactory we might exchange. But I think we can ride a little out here.”
“I do not profess to teach any one, sir,” said Dick angrily; “but I could ride that beautiful Arab, and it would be a shame to send it away.”
“You don’t know what you are talking about,” said Wyatt in a low voice. “Hold your tongue.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Dick proudly; “I’ve ridden restive horses before now. The gunner here took him on the curb, and he has a tremendous bit in his mouth; look how he champs. I’ll ride him if you’ll give me leave, Captain Hulton.”
“Mount, then, and show us,” said the captain haughtily.
Dick started forward at once towards the horse, while the sergeant looked frowningly from one to the other, as if he could not believe his ears.
“No, no,” said Wyatt warmly; “he’ll break the poor lad’s neck.”