“Goodness! I hope he will let us get near him,” said Hardware. “I don’t much fancy a chase through this sort of country.”
“He looks as wild as a hawk,” was his companion’s response.
Indeed White-eye did not appear as if he meant to be docilely captured.
As the boys cautiously crept forward, trying to avoid any action that might startle him, the pony rolled his eyes back in the manner that had given him his name and extended his nostrils, sniffing the air suspiciously. Both boys had brought along some grain in their pockets, out of the supply carried for emergencies, and now Hardware dipped his hand into his pocket and extended it, full of oats, for White-eye’s inspection.
But seemingly, the pony had no mind to be caught just then. He gave a plunge and snort and dashed off.
“Oh, gracious!” groaned Hardware. “There he goes, lickety-split; it doesn’t look as if we’d ever catch him.”
“Howling hen-roosts, no!” gasped Persimmons, who had just barked his shin on a sharp rock. “And I tell you one thing, Hardware, I’m not going to chase very far after him. Hullo, what’s he doing now?”
White-eye had paused with startling suddenness in his mad career, and the next minute the boys realized what had caused his abrupt stoppage. His long tether, with the stone attached, had caught around the stump of a sage bush as it bounded down the hill, and twisted round the stump two or three times had captured the runaway as effectually as if he had been tied by human hands.
“Well, that’s what I call luck,” declared Hardware fervently.