“He was,” said Dick, growing excited. “As soon as he found that he couldn’t go back to the field, he’d give in and canter off. The worst of it was, he used to spoil the saddles so with rolling. But you should have seen him go.”
“Donkeys do go,” said the captain dryly; “they’ve a pace of their own.”
“Oh, yes,” said Dick; “but old Thistle used to go after the pack like a greyhound. He was thin-legged and light, and he could jump like a buck; and when a hedge was too big he’d scramble up the bank, squeeze through, leap down, and be off again. We used to go over and through places which plenty of the gentlemen on their big hunters wouldn’t tackle. It used to be capital fun.”
“Ever have any falls?” said Wyatt.
“Oh, lots; but I never used to get much hurt. I didn’t mind. Old Thistle came down with me once in a ditch, and rolled over me. He broke my arm, though.”
“Father mend it?”
“Oh, yes; it soon grew together again. When I was bigger I had a pony; but he was never so fast as the donkey, and couldn’t keep up so long.”
“Indeed?”
“Nothing like it. That donkey would keep up to the end of a long run, and when it was over, and his saddle was off, he’d just have a roll and be ready to go on again.”
“After the pony came a horse, I suppose,” said the captain.