As soon as he could get his breath, Lawrence began to laugh, and Mr Preston followed his lead, while the grave Muslim could not forbear a smile at Mr Burne. This worthy’s straw hat had been flying behind, hanging from his neck by a lanyard, while he stood up in his stirrups, craned his neck forward, and held his pocket-handkerchief whip fashion, though it more resembled an orange streak of light as it streamed behind; while now, as soon as the horse had stopped, he climbed out of the saddle, walked two or three steps, and then sat down and stared as if he had been startled out of his senses.
“Not hurt, I hope, Burne,” said the professor kindly.
“Hurt, sir—hurt? Why, that brute must be mad. He literally flew with me, and I might as well have pulled at Saint Paul’s as try to stop him. Good gracious me! I’m shaken into a jelly.”
“Mine was just as hard-mouthed,” said the professor.
“Hard-mouthed? say iron-mouthed while you are about it. And look here, Lawrence, don’t you make your pony play such tricks again.”
“I did nothing, sir,” expostulated Lawrence.
“Nonsense, sir! don’t tell me. I saw you tickle him with your hand behind the saddle.”
“But, Mr Burne—”
“Don’t interrupt and contradict, sir. I distinctly saw you do it, and then the nasty brute kicked up his heels, and squealed, and frightened the others.”
“But, Mr Burne—”