“Here, father,” said the boy dolefully, as he rose from where he lay—down among the thick brush.
“Hurt?”
“I—I don’t know yet. No; I don’t think so, father. Here, my gun’s gone.”
“There it is, sticking up among the bushes. I’ll get it,” said the doctor; and pulling his horse sidewise, he reached over and drew out the gun.
“Now then, where are you hurt?”
“Nowhere,” said Nic, forcing his way out to where the nag stood, taking the reins, and after pulling down the near side stirrup, climbing into the saddle.
At that moment there was a clapping of hands, and he turned to find his father applauding him.
“Bravo! Good!” cried the doctor, with his eyes flashing. “I like that pluck, Nic. Why, boy, you did wonderfully well. You are as rough as can be in the saddle. But really, you only want confidence: you can ride.”
“Can I, father?” said Nic dubiously.
“Can you? yes. You must have had some practice.”