"He haw! he haw!" brayed young Jack suddenly; "it isn't my little Dovey."
"Nor my cute little young master," shrilled out the small Bressay.
"Nor my Sojer," called out the Welsh pony, and he neighed irritably.
"And it's certainly not Master Champ," said the Exmoor haughtily. "He's the dead image of his father."
"And it's not my master either," said Attaboy fiercely, "I'll kick any horse who says so."
Apache Girl was the only one who did not lift her voice. She kept a proud silence, but we all knew what she thought. Her adored young mistress looked as much like her mother as a younger sister, although she certainly did not act like her.
"Attaboy," I said suddenly, "I believe you're right. I think young Big Chief is making a dreadful mistake, but it doesn't matter what we think, it's what he thinks. Upon my word, I'm afraid he might drown himself."
"Well you may just save yourself that suspicion," said Attaboy disagreeably. "He has too much sense to do anything so idiotic. He may run away, but he'll never hurt that precious body of his."
"He went without his supper to-night," I said solemnly.
At that, there were sounds of general consternation in the stable, and for the first time they all believed that the matter was serious.