“Satan!”
The order made him sway forward, but he checked the movement.
“I ask you man to man, Bart,” said the master in sudden anger, “was there ever a worse fool hoss than him? He won't budge till I get on his back.”
The wolf-dog shoved his nose again into Barry's hand and growled. He seemed quite willing to go on alone with the master and leave Satan forgotten.
“All right,” said Barry. “Satan, are you comin'?”
The horse whinnied, but would not move.
“Then stay here.”
He turned his back and walked resolutely across the meadow, but slowly, and more slowly, until a ringing neigh made him stop and turn. Satan had not stirred from his first halting place, but now his head was high and his ears pricked anxiously. He pawed the ground in his impatience.
“Look there, Bart,” observed the master gloomily. “There's pride for you. He won't let on that he's too weak to carry me. Now I'd ought to let him stay there till he drops.”
He whistled suddenly, the call sliding up, breaking, and rising again with a sharp appeal. Satan neighed again as it died away.