"What a delightful creature this is!" cried Sarah, wheeling sharply around Mr. Kerchey. "I could ride him night and day without wearying."
"Ah! glad to h—h—hear it!" said the amateur farmer, still holding the saddle with a fearful grasp.
"I see you are very careful of your horse," she added, letting her animal prance daintily on before. "Is he lame?"
"No—not—not exactly——"
"Ha! ha! I see! You are preserving his wind in order to outstrip us towards the close of the ride! I shall look out for you, Mr. Kerchey!"
"I—beg—to—assure—you—" replied the tortured man, each word jolted out of his lungs by the hard-trotting horse, "I—have no—no such intention."
"How I envy you the advantages of living in a city!" exclaimed Sarah. "You have riding-schools there; you must have enjoyed them a great deal, Mr. Kerchey."
If, on ordinary occasions, it was difficult for the amateur farmer to express his ideas, what shall we say of him in his present painful situation? All his faculties were called into activity by the threatening danger. His own horse was beginning to prance and amble sidewise; and it was only by the exercise of great vigilance that he kept his balance at all. Let the reader endeavor to carry on a sprightly conversation with a saucy girl and add up a long column of figures at the same time, and he may be able to form a dim conception of the ordeal through which Mr. Kerchey was compelled to pass.
"I—I—never—rode much," he managed to articulate.
"Indeed? you surprise me," cried Sarah, carefully committing the trifling mistake of touching his horse with the tip of her whip.