“And that speaks volumes!” said Dr. Firth. “Not that you would call them extra-orderly now. Look at Judy, I ask you!”
The younger Miss McNab had just shot into view in the paddock beyond the garden. She was mounted on a nuggety black pony, which had apparently gone mad. Bucking was beyond the black pony, ordinarily an animal of sedate habits and calm middle-age; but it fled across the paddock, “pig-rooting,” kicking-up, and now and then pausing to twist and wriggle in the most complex fashion. Behind the pair came Jack, who rolled in his saddle, helpless with laughter: his shouts of mirth echoed as he went.
“She’ll be killed!” I gasped.
“Not she,” said Dr. Firth. “That child is born to be hanged! But I would certainly like to know what had come to my old Blackie. I didn’t think he had it in him to be so gay.”
Blackie’s gaiety at the moment seemed to border on desperation. He propped in his gallop, gave a series of ungainly bounds, and finally commenced to kick as though nothing else could ease his spirits. At each kick his hind-quarters shot higher and higher into the air, and Judy slid a little farther forward. At last, a kick so high that it seemed that nothing could save the pony from turning a somersault ended the matter for his rider: she left the saddle, appeared to sit on Blackie’s head for a moment, and came to earth in a heap. The pony stood still, panting.
In their joyous career they had turned and were near the house, so that it did not take us long to reach them. I ran with wild imaginings of broken bones whirling in my brain: hugely relieved, as I came near, to see Judy gather herself up from the grass, rubbing various portions of her frame with extreme indignation. Beyond the fact that she was very dirty there seemed little damage done. And after all, to be dirty was nothing very unusual for the younger Miss McNab.
“That beast of a pony!” she uttered viciously. “What on earth happened to him, Dr. Firth? He just went mad!”
“He isn’t given to excursions of that kind,” Dr. Firth said, looking puzzled. “Blackie is always regarded as beyond the flights of youth. What did you do to him, Judy?”
“Only rode him. And I could hardly get a move out of him until just now. I told Jack the old slug wasn’t fit to ride!”
“So he went and slung you off!” put in Jack happily, from his pony. “That’ll teach you to be polite to a pony, Ju!”