“Aren’t you afraid you’ll fall against it and hurt you?”
Virginia laughed. “Oh, no!”
“See the ‘V. H.’ on the brass, Anne. Some style to you, Virginia!”
“What’s the horse’s name, Mr. Hanly?” asked Virginia, preparing to mount.
“Napoleon Bonaparte.”
The girls laughed. Virginia swung herself into the saddle. To the admiring girls it seemed as though she had not touched the stirrup at all. She gathered her reins in one hand.
“Remember, you’re to try him, Priscilla, when I get back,” she called, riding away.
From one of the lower windows of the Hermitage, some, one cleared her throat.
“Use extreme caution, Virginia,” some one called, but Virginia was already out of hearing.
She had intended to ride down to the gate-posts, and then farther out into the country on the road which led away from Hillcrest. But by the time she came in sight of the stone posts she had quite decidedly changed her mind. Napoleon Bonaparte was hopeless! If he had not so annoyed her she might have laughed at his combination of gaits. His trot was torture; and it was only by the utmost urging that one could prevail upon him to canter. This urging, Virginia discovered to her surprise, was most effective when accomplished by yanking upon the reins, a proceeding which a Western horse would not have borne at all. His periods of willingness to canter were of short duration, for which the rider at the end of the period usually felt thankful. Moreover, he invariably stumbled when going down hill; and, to cap the climax, and add the finishing touch, he had the asthma, and, after a few moments of speed, sounded like a freight train.