“Miss Norah’ll never love a pony like she loved Bobs,” Brownie said, belligerently.
“No—maybe not. But Bosun’ll run him close, an’ he’ll carry her real well until she’s growed up,” Murty answered. “Sure, he’s not far off fifteen hands, for all they call him a pony. An’ as for worryin’ about her ridin’ him, Mrs. Brown, ma’am—well, ye may as well save y’r own feelin’s.”
“Well, I wish they were all home, that’s all,” said Brownie. “It mightn’t be Miss Norah—there’s Miss Jean, too.”
“Sure, that one can take care of herself,” Murty said, laughing. “She ain’t one of them as talks; but I guess she won’t go fallin’ off on us, for all that. An’ Nan is as safe a mare as there is on Billabong.”
“Now, I heard you say Nan could shy!” retorted Brownie, whose soul refused to be led in ways of comfort.
“I’d not give y’ a ha’penny for the horse that couldn’t,” said Murty, unblushingly. “Wud ye have them all rockin’ horses? But Miss Jean can ride her all right. Now, wud ye be afther suggestin’ that it’s Garryowen as’ll sling Mr. Jim, or ould Warder that’s goin’ to market wid Mr. Wally? Ye pays y’r money an’ takes y’r choice!”
“You get out!” said Brownie gloomily. “All very well for you to stand there grinnin’ at me like a Cheshire cheese—but the master’s as anxious as I am, an’ it’s no wonder! An’ I would bet sixpence, Murty, me fine lad, that down inside you you’re pretty anxious too!”
“Bosh!” said Murty, looking slightly confused. The sounds of hoofs saved him from further defence. He turned to the kitchen doorway with sufficient quickness to justify Brownie’s accusation.
“ ’Tis the Boss,” he said, in tones of disappointment. “I’d thought ’twas thim young ones comin’ up the thrack. Tare an’ ages! he’s lettin’ ould Monarch out! Why wudn’t he be lettin’ me go, whin I asked him, I wonder? Well——” He pondered a moment, and strolled away. Five minutes later Brownie, looking out hurriedly at hearing again the sound of hoofs on the gravel of the track, saw him cantering off in the wake of his master.
“Why on earth am I seventeen stone?” queried Brownie, desperately, of the ambient air. Receiving no adequate response, she retreated to the kitchen and wept a little into her apron; then, realizing the futility of grief, roused herself to action and made scones of a lightness almost ephemeral. It was some relief to her surcharged feelings.