"He's a good deal more than forty-six inches high," said the young man.
"Yes, for his parents were bred in the American corn belt."
"It's queer," said Happy Harry, "how the Old Country people run to a stocky, blocky pony. We like more refinement of shape."
"Yes," said Cassowary, "I've heard that the real Shetland type over there is like a tiny draft horse."
"This little fellow is a bit too high," said Harry. "He'd be disqualified in a pony show."
"He isn't going to be shown," said Cassowary, patting me, "he's just going to have a good time,—aren't you, Fetlar?"
I pawed the hardwood floor three times, and they all laughed heartily.
"He's a beauty," said Happy Harry, and he grinned cheerfully. "Oh! to be a boy again and on a pony's back!—Can you shake hands, little fellow?"
I lifted my right fore-foot and he shook it heartily and then began to fumble in a basket of wool.