"Billy and Norah have had this little joke plotted for some time," Mr. Linton said—"and the experiences they have undergone in keeping strings and steed out of your way this morning have, I believe, whitened the hair of both!"
Jim looked gratefully round.
"You're all bricks," he said. "Has he got a name, Dad?"
"'A tearin' foine wan,' Murty says," responded his father; "since it's Irish: Garryowen, unless you'd like to change it."
"Not me!" said Jim. "I like it." He looked round as the sound of the gong came across the garden. "I say, don't mind me," he said—"go into breakfast. I don't want any this morning." His eye went back to the bay.
"Rubbish!" said his father—"he'll be alive after breakfast! Come along," and reluctantly Jim saw Billy lead his horse away to the stable. He discovered, however, on reaching the breakfast room, that he was remarkably hungry, and distinguished himself greatly with his knife and fork.
Afterwards it was necessary to try the bay's paces without delay, and they all watched Jim take him round the home paddock. Garryowen moved beautifully; and when Jim finally put him at the highest part of the old log fence, and brought him back again, he flew it with a foot to spare. The boy's face was aglow as he rode up.
"Well, he's perfect!" he said. "I never was on such a horse." He came close to his father. "Dad," he said in a low tone—"are you sure you wouldn't like him instead of Monarch? He's far more finished."
"Not for anything, thanks, old chap—I prefer my pupil," said his father, his look answering more than his words. "You see he never bucks with me, Jim!"
Jim laughed, dismounting. "Like to try him, Cecil?"