"Gee-up, gee-who, get along, horsey," she cried, pummelling Cross's shoulders unmercifully with her feet. "Gallop away, old horse Coss, gee-up, gee-up. Good night, little baby's mother, I sall come back;" and Cross, thankful to get her away on any terms, turned to the door, humouring her by pretending to trot and gallop. But half way down the little garden path Hoodie suddenly pulled him up, literally pulled him up, by clasping him with her two arms so tightly round the throat that he was nearly strangled.
"Stop, stop, horsey," she cried, "I haven't kissed the baby. I must kiss the baby."
Even Cross's good nature was nearly at an end, but he dared not oppose her. He stood still, very red in the face, with some muttered exclamation, while Hoodie screamed to Lizzie to bring out the baby to be kissed, perfectly regardless of Martin's remonstrances.
And in this fashion at last Hoodie was brought home—Martin walking home in silent despair alongside. Only when they got close to the lodge gate Hoodie pulled up Cross again, but this time in much gentler fashion.
"Let me down, Coss, please," she said, meekly enough, "I'd rather walk now."
And walk in she did, as demurely and comfortably as if she had just returned from an ordinary walk with her nurse.
"Was there ever such a child?" said Martin to herself again.
And poor Cross, as he walked away wiping his forehead, decided in his own mind that he'd rather have the breaking in of twenty young horses than of such a queer specimen as little Miss Hoodie.