“I don’t think he ever taught me,” said the lad thoughtfully. “He used to tell me to stick in my knees and hold tight. I rode so much that it came natural.”
“What was the first horse you had?” said Wyatt.
“It was a donkey.”
“A bull, Darrell!”
“No, no!” cried Dick, laughing; “but I had many a ride on the old bull at the farm close by. You have to keep your balance there, for your legs are stretched out, and you can’t hold on with your knees.”
“But you couldn’t go to the hunt on a donkey,” said Wyatt.
“Oh, but I did for two years; but then it was something like a donkey!” cried Dick, warming up with his old recollections. “He had a horrible temper, and he’d kick and bite, and try to wipe you off by rubbing against posts or walls; and when that wouldn’t do he used to squeal something like these Arab horses, and lie down and roll over and over.”
“What did you do then?” asked Wyatt.
“I waited till he got up and jumped on again.”
“A nice brute for a hunter.”