CHAPTER IX CASSOWARY TRIES MY PACES
"The evening is young yet. Dad says you are a racing pony. Come, show me your paces," and in a jiffy this swift girl had Drunkard chained to a veranda post, and had seized a new riding bridle that someone had thrown on a chair.
Then she sprang on my back, and giving my neck a slap said, "Head of the Lake, racer."
I went slowly for a few paces to see what kind of a seat she had, but I soon found that she rode like a fearless boy and would stick on no matter if I went like the wind.
Now what about the road? I didn't want to break a leg and have to be shot.
There was no trouble here. It was as smooth as a table. Mr. Devering's crusher had been at work, so I pricked up my hoofs and showed her what an Arabian-Shetland can do when on its mettle.
"Prince Fetlar," said my rider as we galloped along, "you may be a winner, but so far you don't beat my Apache Girl, who is an Indian pony."
I pricked up my ears and she went on just as if she knew that I understood her, "Apache Girl is a dear and don't you dare to cross her. If you do, you'll reckon with me. She's up in the far pasture now with the other ponies, but she is soon coming home and you'll have a chance to get acquainted. Now away, away. I'm jockey number one and my colors are blue and white. Next us is a sorrel pony, his jockey is red and green, next him a white pony, colors black and gold. Beat them, Pony, beat them!" and she gave me a good whack.
So this nice wild girl wanted me to beat those imaginary ponies, did she? Well, I could pretend to see them as distinctly as she could, and I entered on a pace that grew and grew till we seemed to be flying.