"'I don't know how I got down the hill—old Pivot did it.'"
"I say—your faver must be splendid."
"Of course he's splendid." Dick brushed away so superfluous an observation. "That chestnut's his best hack now. Father lassoed him in the yards, and broke him in himself, and you should have seen him buck. The men swore he'd always be an outlaw, but father said he wouldn't, and he beat him in the end. He wouldn't let another soul touch him, and though he goes quietly enough with father, no one else can ride him now. I guess father will have to break him in again now, 'cause he's been turned out for a year since father went to England."
"Was Tinker all right?" asked Bobby eagerly.
"Tinker just came up to me in the yards when they cut him out from the mob and put his old head down to my pocket, looking for an apple. He always did that from the time he was a foal."
Someone behind them—they were leaning over the rail, the ship forgotten—put a hand on Dick's shoulder, and the boy jumped round, his face flushing. Mr. Warner stood laughing at him—near him, Merle, her face a curious mixture of interest and sullenness.
"That was pretty exciting," said Mr. Warner.
Dick's colour deepened. He muttered incoherently something about "just telling the kid a yarn."
"You come to breakfast, Bobby," Merle said crossly. "Mother wants you." She seized the unwilling Bobby's hand and led him away.