“I say, Phil, old chap, I’m so tired; do go and fetch the whip.”
“What’s the good?” said Philip; “that won’t catch them.”
“No, but we’ll leave the gate open,” said his brother, “and drive them up the field into the stable, and then we can catch them easily enough.”
“Bravo!” said Fred, clapping his hands, but not making any noise from the fact of having his handkerchief in one, having been wiping his face.
Away trotted Philip, and soon returned with a long cart-whip; and then once more the boys went to the bottom of the field, and Harry advanced with the whip in his hand towards the pond.
As for Neddy, Harry might have stood at the edge of the water and cracked the whip until his donkeyship felt disposed to come out, for not a bit did he care, knowing full well that he was out of reach, and that even if the thong could have touched him he would not have felt it through his thick grey coat; and so stock-still he stood, flapping his great ears, whisking his tail, and lazily winking his eyes. But it was different with the pony: he was a thin-skinned gentleman, and not so much of a philosopher as the ass. He, too, had often felt the whip upon his flanks, and knew the flavour, and, not being so good a judge of distance as his companion, as soon as the whip gave the first crack he made a start, and spattered out of the pond, and away up the field towards the open gate.
Stock-still stood Neddy.
“Crack!” went the whip again.
“Come out,” shouted Harry.
“Poor old fellow, then,” said Philip, soothingly.