From Billabong to London

by Mary Grant Bruce

“Go on, old chap!” Jim’s unspurred heel touched his side gently.

A sudden wild impulse came upon the colt. He flung himself forward, plunging violently—snatched at the restraining bit, felt the strain on his mouth and the pressure on his sides as Jim stiffened a little in his seat; and then, quivering with one mad desire to be free, his head went down and he bucked furiously. To the onlookers he seemed like a ball—his head and tail tucked between his legs, his back humped until the rider seemed perched upon the very apex. To and fro he went in one paroxysm after another; writhing, twisting, pounding across yard until brought up by the fence; coming to a standstill with a jerk after a wild fit of bucking and then flinging himself into another yet more wild. Jim sat him easily, his supple body giving a little to each furious bound, but never shifting in the saddle. The five on the fence-cap watched him breathlessly; however secure the rider may be there is a never-failing excitement in watching a determined buck-jumper. And the chestnut was bucking with a determination worthy of his good breeding.

He stopped suddenly, all four feet planted wide apart, panting heavily, with nostrils dilated. For a moment it seemed as though he had enough. Then his head went down again, he sprang into the air, bounding forward with a sudden twist—the hardest buck of all to sit. It was too much for the chestnut himself. As he landed he crossed his fore-feet, tripped, and went headlong to the ground. A little cry broke from Norah, and Wally drew in his breath sharply.

David Linton was off the fence almost before his son touched the earth. Jim kicked his feet out of the stirrups as the colt tripped, and was flung clear, not relinquishing his hold on the bridle. He landed easily, and was up again as quickly as he had gone down, dusty but uninjured. The chestnut lay on his side, panting, for a moment; then, with a scramble, he came awkwardly to his feet. As he rose, Jim slipped into the saddle. The whole incident was over so speedily that it seemed like a trick of the imagination. David Linton gave an inaudible sigh of relief, climbing back to his place on the cap of the rail.

The chestnut was beaten. He had done his worst, culminating in a display that had shaken and alarmed him a good deal and had made his shoulder ache badly; and the Presence on his back had not seemed disturbed at all. It was evident that nothing could be done to annoy him; at the end of a period which had been exceedingly trying for the colt himself, the Presence was quite unruffled; not angry, not in any way moved, but saying soothing things in his quiet voice, and patting his neck in the same friendly way. The colt gave it up. Evidently it was prudent and simpler to do as the Presence desired since in the long run it came to the same thing, after much personal inconvenience if he resisted. The fire died out of his wild eye, and the stiffness of his muscles relaxed. In a moment he answered the rein meekly, and walked round the yard; and when he found that he was expected to increase the pace to a trot, did so awkwardly enough, but without any resistance.

Jim trotted him for a few minutes, pulled him up, and slipped to the ground, talking to him, and patting the wet neck. Then he grinned up at the trio on the fence.

“He’ll do now, I think,” he said. “That last outburst took all the inquiring spirit out of him. You know, he hasn’t one little bit of vice; he only wanted to know who was boss.”

“Did he hurt you, Jimmy?” Norah asked.

“Not a scrap, thanks. I’m awfully sorry the poor little chap came down—it scared him. But he had to find out; and now we’ll be first-rate friends—won’t we, old man?” This to the chestnut, who hung his head meekly and looked comically like a naughty little boy released from the corner. “Hope we didn’t give you a fright?”

“You were too quickly down and up for us to have much time for that,” said his father, disguising the fact that in a moment of paternal weakness he had moved with equal rapidity.