Max approached, and then darted back, for, rip rap, the pony’s heels flew out, and as he was standing nearly across the stall, they struck the division with a loud crack, whose sound made Max leap away to the stable wall.
“Quiet, Wat!” cried Kenneth, doubling his fist and striking the pony with all his might in the chest.
The sturdy little animal uttered a cry more like a squeal than a neigh, shook its head, reared up, and began to strike at the lad with his hoofs so fiercely, that. Kenneth darted out of the stall, the halter checking the pony when it tried to follow, and keeping it in its place in the punishment which followed.
“That’s it, is it, Master Wat, eh?” cried Kenneth, running to a corner of the stable, and taking down a short thick whip which hung from a hook. “You want another lesson, do you, my boy? You’ve had too many oats lately. Now we shall see. Stand a little back, Max.”
This Max readily did, the pony eyeing them both the while, with its head turned right round, and making feints of kicking.
The next minute it began to dance and plunge and kick in earnest, as, by a dexterous usage of the whip, Kenneth gave it crack after crack, each sounding report being accompanied by a flick on the pony’s ribs, which evidently stung sharply, and made it rear and kick.
“I’ll teach you to fight, my lad. You rhinoceros-hided old ruffian, take that—and take that—and take that.”
“Hey! what’s the matter, Master Ken?” cried a harsh voice.
“Kicking and biting, Shon. I’ll teach him,” cried Kenneth, thrashing away at the pony. “I wish he had been clipped, so that I could make him feel.”
“Hey! but ye mak’ him feel enough, Master Ken. An’ is this the shentleman come down to stay?”