“Six, Nic. Well, get off and climb on to the waggon.” Nic drew a deep breath as his father checked the horses; and, stung more than ever, the boy kicked his nag with his heels and sent it forward.
“Well, why don’t you get down, sir?”
“Because I’d rather keep on and ride, father,” said Nic huskily.
“Do you mean that, sir?”
“Yes, father.”
“Thank you, Nic,” said the doctor, turning to him with a smile. “I like the boy who is not afraid to own that he is alarmed; and better still to hear you say through your teeth that you will not be beaten—metaphorically, of course. Now, then, we understand our position. This is not boasting, mind—look at me. You see me here?”
“Yes, father,” said Nic, feeling envious of the easy, upright position of his father in the saddle.
“Let me tell you, then, that I feel as easy and comfortable here as if I were seated upon a cushion in a carriage. More so, for this noble beast knows me as I know him, and after a fashion we are as one together in going over the ground. Do you understand what that means, Nic?”
“Yes, father; but you have learned to ride.”
“Yes, and more, boy. It means the confidence which comes of knowledge. When I came out here, years ago, I had not been on horseback for twenty years; I was a miserable invalid, and when I mounted my horse—a necessity out in a wild country like this—I suffered a martyrdom of nervous dread. But I did what you have just done, made up my mind that I would master my fear and ride, and I won. It took me a whole year. As for you, it will not take you a month.”