Certain tones in the man's hearty voice reminded me of the boy's sweet notes, and wasn't there a queer suggestion of each other when I stood near them? We Shetland ponies as I have said before are very close to human beings for our ancestors were literally brought up with the children in the crofters' huts, and my mother has often told me that her mother had many a lick at the family platter and many a time her soft muzzle was buried in the children's necks.... I had it—the man was some relation to the boy. That explained the man's patient interest in him, and the fascination that the man had for the boy. Blood is thicker than water every time.
I was very pleased with myself. Now I would have to find out the exact relationship. That would be something to amuse me in these solitudes, and I pressed closer to my young master so that he might steady himself by laying a hand on my neck.
"Gee whiz!" he exclaimed with a sob, "if Captain isn't carrying that beast."
Sure enough, the good shepherd singing so easily in front of us, and stepping so firmly over the trail in his big leather hunting boots, had both hands up to his shoulders. Lammie-noo lay across his back like a pillow, his head wig-wagging, his manner content. He wasn't afraid. I suspected that he had been carried that way before.
"Captain," cried Dallas anxiously as he ran after him, "I'm here."
Mr. Devering stopped singing. "All right," he called, "I'm glad to hear you."
"You can't see me," said the boy, very anxious to make conversation, "but I'm here all the same."
"Good for you, Sub, we'll have a fine appetite for our supper."
"You don't dine in the evening then," said Dallas agreeably.
"No, sir—country hours—dine at twelve p.m. No afternoon tea except on occasions. Supper at six."