“There’s a lot of the tennis-ball in our Jimmy,” said Wally, bringing his long legs over the fence and descending to earth. “Can’t keep him down—what a nasty bit he’ll be for a solid, earnest German to tackle! Going to rub him down, Jim?”
“Yes—bring me the things, Billy, and take this saddle,” Jim said, addressing the dusky retainer, who hovered near, armed with cloths and brushes. “No, I’ll do it myself, thanks; I want him to get thoroughly used to me. Got a thistle for him, Norah?” And for the next quarter of an hour the colt’s toilet proceeded with a thoroughness bent on impressing the pupil with the knowledge that the human touch was really a comforting thing and led to a tired chestnut baby ultimately feeling good all over.
“There you are,” said Jim, giving him a final pat as he slipped off the halter and watched him trot off into the freedom of the paddock. “When you find out what to do with your legs and arrive at something resembling a mouth, you’ll be worth riding. And now I’m going to give myself a treat by getting on Garryowen and going to see how the fencers are working in the new subdivision; they want a cheque on account, and I want to see if they have earned it, before they get it. Who’s coming?”
“Me,” said Norah, with great and ungrammatical fervour.
“And me,” said Wally.
Jim looked at his father.
“Oh, well, we haven’t much more Billabong time left,” said David Linton, smiling. “Me, too, I suppose.”
“Jim stiffened a little in his seat.”