“Yes, father,” he said, rather hesitatingly.
“Then off!”
The horses started at the pressure given by the doctor’s heels, and the next moment Nic was bumping about in the saddle, slipping first a little to one side, then to the other, making attempts to get over on to the horse’s neck, and having hard work to keep his gun well across his knees.
It was hot, breathless work; and moment by moment Nic told himself that he must come off; but he did not, and went on bump, bump, bump, bump, conscious that his father was watching him from the corners of his eyes.
“I do wish he’d stop,” thought Nic, as the nag trotted steadily on; and then the boy thought of the Kentish common and the games they had had with the donkeys—when, almost as soon as a boy was mounted, another came to tickle the donkey’s tail with a piece of furze, with the result that the animal’s head went down, its heels up, and the rider off on to his back, perhaps into a furze or bramble patch.
“But there’s no one behind with a furze or bramble,” thought Nic, who began to find the trot not so very bad, when, to his horror, his father cried out “Canter!” and, with the horses snorting and enjoying the motion, away they went in and out among the trees, the docile animals keeping pace together, and avoiding the dense parts by instinct.
“Now I am off,” said Nic to himself; but to his surprise he kept on, finding the canter a delightfully easy pace, and that it was far less difficult to keep his seat in the saddle, the swing was so pleasant, elastic, and rhythmical.
This went on for a good quarter of a mile, until the trees grew more open and patches of scrubby bushes appeared in their way, when, before he knew it, Nic’s steed, instead of avoiding a clump about three feet high, rose at it, bounded over as lightly as a kangaroo, and came to a dead stop on the other side, for it had lost its rider.
“I didn’t mean that,” said the doctor, pulling up and turning back.
“Here, Nic, where are you?”