“Good girl, Jean!” he sang out. “I’ll catch him.” And Jean swelled with joy at the carelessly given word of praise.
Warder stood quietly enough while Jim came gently on Garryowen, speaking soothing words until he was near enough to grasp his rein.
“Thought I’d have a lovely chase after him,” Jim said.
“Is Wally hurt? Warder didn’t buck with him, did he?” Jean asked anxiously.
“Not he—Warder’s no buckjumper,” returned Jim. “No—the silly old mule—it was all his fault!”
“Whose—Wally’s?” Jean asked, as he paused.
Jim laughed.
“No, Warder’s,” he said. “Put his foot into a crab-hole and turned a somersault—neatest thing you ever saw! Wal. shot about a hundred yards; luckily he landed on a soft spot, for he’s not hurt. There he is, lazy beggar; he ought to be coming to meet us.”
Wally held no such view. He was stretched at full length on the grass, his felt hat pulled over his face. As they rode up he came slowly into a sitting position.
“Bless you, Jimmy! Much trouble?”