“Oh, you can ride all right. I guess you could do most things you set your mind to.”
Yates was flattered by this evidently sincere tribute to his capacity, so he got out of the hammock. The boy, who had been sitting on the horse with both feet on one side, now straightened his back and slipped to the ground.
“Wait till I throw down the fence,” he said.
Yates mounted with some difficulty, and the two went trotting down the road. He managed to hold his place with some little uncertainty, but the joggling up and down worried him. He never seemed to alight in quite the same place on the horse’s back, and this gave an element of chance to his position which embarrassed him. He expected to come down some time and find the horse wasn’t there. The boy laughed at his riding, but Yates was too much engaged in keeping his position to mind that very much.
“D-d-dirt is s-s-said to b-b-be matter out of place, and that’s what’s the m-m-mat-matter w-w-with me.” His conversation seemed to be shaken out of him by the trotting of the horse. “I say, Bartlett, I can’t stand this any longer. I’d rather walk.”
“You’re all right,” said the boy; “we’ll make him canter.”
He struck the horse over the flank with the loose end of the halter rein.
“Here!” shouted Yates, letting go the bridle and grasping the mane. “Don’t make him go faster, you young fiend. I’ll murder you when I get off—and that will be soon.”
“You’re all right,” repeated young Bartlett, and, much to his astonishment, Yates found it to be so. When the horse broke into a canter, Yates thought the motion as easy as swinging in a hammock, and as soothing as a rocking chair.
“This is an improvement. But we’ve got to keep it up, for if this brute suddenly changes to a trot, I’m done for.”