“Baal that pfeller him goin’ to buck, mine thinkit,” said Billy, in low tones of disappointment. “Him get walk about too much.”
“You let Mr. Jim alone, you black image of a haythen,” said Mr. O’Toole, affably. “Think you can teach him how to break in a horse?”
“Not much,” said Billy, accepting the epithet and the criticism cheerfully. “But mine like ’em buck—plenty! Wish Master Jim him wear spurs.”
“Spurs—on that chestnut baby!” ejaculated Murty, in subdued accents of horror. “Is it to butcher him ye’d like, then? Sure ye think every horse needs as much encouragement as y’r old Bung-Eye. Sorra the horse I’d give you to break, barring it was a camel; I’m told them needs persuasion.”
“That pfeller mare Bung-Eye no good,” said Billy, scornfully—the ancient piebald mare on which many of his duties were carried out, was the chief bitterness of his life. “Mine thinkit she bin fall down—die, plenty soon.”
“Not she!” chuckled Murty. “Don’t you hope it, me lad. Boss bin tell me ’tis Bung-Eye for you until you learn to ride a bit—if you ever do, an’ that’s no certainty, I’m thinking.” Then, as the outraged aborigine turned his eyes upon him in speechless wrath, Murty grinned in friendly fashion. “Never mind—there’s a quiet old pony mare running down in the Far Plain, and we’ll see if you can’t have a thrifle of a turn on her, if you’re good.”
Billy spluttered.
“Boss him bin say I could ride one of the young ones,” he protested. Whatever Billy could or could not do, he could sit any horse that had ever been handled. He had a wild, primeval desire to smite the broad, good-humoured face grinning at him.
“The Boss said that, do ye say? Me poor lad, ye’ve misunderstood him—‘twas to lead one about he meant!” Murty’s tone changed suddenly and his smile faded. “Yerra now—look at that one!” he uttered.
The chestnut colt had made several unquiet attempts at progressing round the yard. The weight on his back troubled him; there was a feeling pervading him that he was being mastered, although he could no longer see his conqueror. When he tried to break into a jog-trot there came on his mouth a steady strain, gentle but quite determined, bringing him instantly to a puzzled standstill. Then came a hint that more movement was required of him—that he was expected to walk. But his mind was far too excited for him to think of walking; he wanted to jog, to trot—to break into a wild gallop that would rid him for ever of this strange, perplexing Presence on his back. He came to a halt again, snorting.