Chapter IX.
A Boy at Home.
Dick did it as modestly as he could, and his words were as simple and natural as a boy’s need be, when he was questioned at the mess-table about his ability to ride and knowledge of horses; but it all had to be dragged out of him in replies to questions.
“Oh,” he said, “I had something to do with horses for so long a time back. I must have been quite a tiny little fellow when my father used to take me up before him, and set me astride on his horse’s neck. I remember that the scrubby mane used to tickle my legs dreadfully. And I often toddled into the stable to feed the horses with fresh grass. My mother used to be frightened, but my father said the horses would not trample on me; and they never did. They used to reach down to look at me with their great eyes, and blow into my neck.”
“So that you became quite used to horses very early?” said the captain.
“Oh, yes; I never remember feeling afraid of a horse.”
“Your father kept good ones?” said Wyatt.
“Splendid ones to go, but he was only a country practitioner, fond of hunting, and he never gave much for one, I should say; but he was always one of the first flight in a run.”
“And he taught you to ride quite early?” said the captain.
Dick looked at him with rather a puzzled air.