It was a pretty sight to see each child running to his or her pet. Cassowary alone did not move. Her pony, Apache Girl, came stepping behind her, and thrust her head over her mistress' shoulder.
Cassowary's pony was as queer as she was. She merely put up her hand and rubbed the young animal's poll without turning round.
This Apache Girl was a tough looking, sporty pony, ewe-necked and appearing capable of any amount of hard work. I didn't like her eye. It showed spirit, but also a provoking temper. "One can't always tell what an Indian pony will do," I thought as I whinnied gently to her.
She turned her head away, and never said a word, so I went on examining the other ponies.
Big Chief had sprung proudly to the back of his Hackney pony, who was an animal showing quality and finish, but who was also sensational and smart, and had a flashy way of going with head and tail carried high.
"That's Attaboy," said Cassowary to Dallas. "We call him 'Peacock Attaboy' when Big Chief isn't round. Doesn't he cut a dash?"
"Big Chief likes that," said Dallas softly. Then he burst into laughter.
Little Big Wig, both arms round the neck of his tiny sturdy miniature work-horse pony, was galloping down the road and would soon be out of sight.
I gazed after them, my heart in my mouth. That was the Master of Bressay—that little piebald creature with the pale blue eyes, and Bressay was the island that a little pony friend of mine had come from—a dear little friend who died. I recalled the many stories he had told me of his home island and decided that of all the ponies the Master of Bressay would be my favourite. My longing eyes followed him as he tore along, as safe as a table for the child, his fuzzy-wuzzy body looking like an Angora cat blown the wrong way by the wind. There was no Arabian blood in him. He was part Shetland and part Icelandic, and as little Big Wig had said, "Not very well-bred."