“Have it saddled if you like, my boy,” said Mr Rogers, kindly.
But Dick flushed, gave a spring from the ground, and was on the little cob’s back.
They were both skilled riders, but Dick’s illness made him timorous at times. He, however, fought hard to master his weakness; and when Jack cried, “Come on, Dick; let’s race to the big tree and back,” he stuck his knees into the cob’s plump sides and away they went, with the wind rushing by their ears, and the cobs keeping neck and neck, rounding the big tree about a mile away on the plain, and then making the dusty earth rise in clouds as they tore back, and were checked with a touch of the bridle by the home field.
“Why, Dick, my boy, I would not wish to see a better seat on a horse,” cried Mr Rogers, patting the cobs in turn. “Jack, you set up your back like a jockey. Sit more upright, my boy.”
“All right, father; I’ll try,” said Jack, throwing himself right forward so as to hug his cob’s neck. “But I say, father, isn’t he lovely? I felt all the time as if I was a bit of him, or we were all one.”
“You looked like it, my boy,” said Mr Rogers, smiling in his son’s animated face. “I wish Dick had your confidence, and you a little more of his style.”
“All right, father, we’ll try and exchange a bit a-piece,” laughed Jack. “But I can’t half believe it, father, that these are to be our own horses.”
“You may believe it, then,” said his father. “And now get them to the stable.”
“Oh, I say, Dick, what beauties!” cried Jack. “What shall you call yours?”
“I don’t know yet,” replied his brother. “He’s very fast. ‘Swift’ wouldn’t be a bad name; and we might call yours ‘Sure.’”