“I was only thinking, sir.”
“Thinking? Of what?”
“Of you, sir. You’ve reg’larly seemed to tame a horse as none of us could manage; you’d better see now if you can’t break in Black Bob.”
“I will,” cried Dick, “if ever I have a chance.”
“Then I wish you joy of your job, sir,” growled the sergeant, pulling out an old silver watch from his fob by means of a steel chain. “And here have I been chattering like an old woman for a good half-hour over your time for a lesson, and the trumpet will be blowing directly for the men’s breakfast. Dis—mount!—Here, run that trooper to the stables,” he cried to the syce waiting.—“Morning, sir. Hope you’ll make another man of Bob Hanson.”
Dick nodded shortly, and strode thoughtfully away to his quarters. But his thoughts were not of the welcome morning meal, nor of meeting Wyatt, with whom he was to make arrangements for joining in the exciting sport which goes by the butcherly title of “pig-sticking”—an ill-chosen name for dashing charges with a lance at one of the fiercest animals of the Indian plains. But the coming hunt, the wild excitement in anticipation, and the wonder whether he would be able to handle his spear without bringing upon him the derision of his friends, all fell into abeyance, so full was he of the account the sergeant had given of the black sheep of the troop.
“It seems to have taken away my appetite,” he said to himself at last. “Why, I’ve got Black Bob on the brain.”
Chapter XII.
Wyatt’s Sermon.
A second month had seemed to fly since Dick had joined his troop. There was so much to do. At the end of the first month he was in the thick of all the drill-practice, and playing his part well, for he picked up the cavalry evolutions and gun-practice with ease, winning plenty of praise from his brother-officers, while the men were delighted with the young subaltern, and had a bright look for him whenever he rode up to his place.