"They were capable of very severe work under the saddle," she said, "and they got it."
"Well!" I replied, "Shetlands can do most anything. I'm not proud. I know my ancestors used to help the crofters with their work, notably in carrying panniers of peat."
"But you are very first-class," she said with a side glance at me from her queer eyes, "though you are a cross-breed."
"I'm valued pretty well," I said modestly, "though I stand a bit high—I hope we may be friends. I'm very devoted to your young mistress."
She tossed her head and said nothing, and I thought it wise to make no further advances, and trotted soberly beside her into the stable.
Cassowary was running in from the supply room with a framed name in her hand—"Apache Girl," and many ribbons hanging from it.
"There, my beauty," she said, hanging it up in the stall. "Come in and have some oats."
Jock, or to give him his real name, Mr. John Alexander Macdonald, who had been chaffing the boys, came forward and took off his cap.
Cassowary shook hands with him in a sober way, but flashed her white teeth at him.