“Ah! would you?” cried Tom, as the brute lifted its heels higher than usual, nearly sending him over its head. “There never was such a beast as this here, Mas’r Harry. If I’d only got a thicker stick!”
One could not pity him much, for at starting he had rejected three or four quiet-looking beasts as too slow, and chosen the animal he rode, or rather tried to ride, for, if the reader will pardon the Irishism, a great deal of Tom’s riding was walking, and performed by leading his beast by its bridle.
But really it was a deceptive beast, and to have seen it drooping its head and walking calmly and peacefully by its hirer’s side, no one would have imagined that it possessed so much mischievous sagacity as it very soon displayed when anyone attempted to mount it.
“I like ’em with some sperrit in ’em, Mas’r Harry,” Tom had said. “If it was a horse it would be different; but if one’s to ride a donkey, let’s have one with something in it.”
And verily Tom’s donkey, as he called it, was not very long before it showed that it had, indeed, something in it, a great deal more, in fact, than Tom had bargained for. We did not pass many trees by the track, but when we did come upon one Tom had certain information thereof, for the mule rubbed his rider’s leg vigorously against the trunk. The sight of a muddy pool of water was the signal for him to squeak, elevate his heels, and then go off at a sharp gallop, when, if his rider did not quickly slip off behind, he would be carried into the pool and bathed, for the mule would drink his fill and then indulge in a roll in the mud and water. In short, I never before saw so many acts of cunning in an animal, one and all directed at dislodging the rider.
At first I was in a state of tremor lest his vagaries should infect the beasts ridden by myself and the guide; but no, they were evidently elderly mules—bordering on a hundred they might have been, from their grey and mangy aspect. They had sown their wild oats years before, and all that they did was to trudge solemnly on, quiet and sure-footed, if not swift.
Tom’s mishaps had their pleasant face, though; they served to make a horribly monotonous journey more bearable, and on an average he was in grief, some way or another, about every two hours.
“Oh, señor,” said the guide proudly, “the mule is perfect! He is a magnificent beast, but he has his antipathies. He used to be ridden by the padre, and he is a most holy and Christian mule. He shows his dislike a little sometimes like that, because the señor who rides him is a heretic.”
“Oh!” I said.
“Yes, it is so, señor, I assure you,” said the guide. “Let your friend ride my beast and I will take his, and then you will see how peaceable he is.”