Well might the Baron start, and exclaim.
The moment the three grooms touched the flanks of Gray Berold, before they had time to lay hands on the stump of his tail, they found themselves flying through the air, and tumbling in a very uncomfortable sort of way against the wall of the courtyard. Marry, that was a brave kick! and when he had given it, the charger looked round after the unhappy grooms, and tossed his stately head, and snorted, evidently meaning to say, “Don’t you want to try it again?”
But the grooms did not want to try it again. They picked themselves up, and rubbed their poor shins and their poor heads, and proceeded to hobble off on their poor feet as fast as they could. But they did not hobble far, for the voice of the Baron was heard in angry expostulation.
“They found themselves flying through the air.”
“How now, varlets!” cried that nobleman. “Do you slink away like beaten hounds because, forsooth, the good beast shakes off a fly, or lashes out his heels in playful sport? Shame on ye, coward hinds! Back, I command ye, and tie me on that tail. Obey, sirrahs, or else—hum—ha—hrrrrugh!!!” and the Baron waved his battle-axe, and looked as if he had swallowed the meat-chopper and the gridiron and the blunderbuss, all at one mouthful.
Hodge, Barnaby, and Perkin were in a bad way, assuredly. On the one hand was the charger, snorting defiance, and with his heels all ready for the next kick, should they presume to touch him; on the other was the furious Baron, also snorting, and with his battle-axe all ready for the next whack, should they presume not to touch him. Here were two sharp horns to a dilemma!
Cautiously the poor knaves crept up once more behind Gray Berold. “Vault thou upon his back, Perkin!” whispered Barnaby. “Perchance from there—” Whizz! whack! thud!—This time Berold did not wait for them to touch him: the sound of their voices was enough; there they all lay again in a heap against the wall, moaning sore and cursing the day they were born.
But now the Baron’s humor changed. “Beshrew me!” he cried. “’Tis a gallant steed. He will not brook, at such a moment, the touch of hireling hands. ’Tis well! give me the tail, my masters! and ye shall see.”