“Good-bye,” cried the governor; and, leaning toward his old friend, he whispered:
“I’d take care: that boy can’t ride a bit.”
“I know,” said the doctor. “Don’t let him see that you do. Good-bye.”
He touched his horse’s sides, and the beautiful beast started to go off at a canter, but was checked instantly, to keep it in a walk, with the result that it began to fret and dance. Nic’s lighter steed followed suit, and the boy’s position grew moment by moment more desperate. Now he lost one stirrup, then the other; and it was only by getting a good grip of the pommel with one hand that he was able to stay on.
Finally, though, the horses were quieted down, and paced together in a walk, when the doctor said quietly:
“Why, Nic, it’s a good thing that it is still dark. I’m afraid we should have had some remarks made if people had been about.”
“I—I never said I could ride, father,” said Nic, in a reproachful tone.
“I’m glad you did not, boy. It’s a good thing that you have no spurs.”
“Is it, father?”
“Of course,” cried the doctor; “if you had, Sour Sorrel would have soon pitched you off.”