“Jim,––go to the other end of the yard; take him with you,––and watch.”
Langford, anxious at all times to be amused; Brenchfield grinning in derision; both went some thirty yards out of hearing, while the horse continued to kick and plunge.
Holding out his hand, Phil drew nearer to the mad animal.
Quietly he murmured the three-syllabled word which he had so dearly earned from his convict friend. The soft and soothing effect of its vowels surprised Phil himself. Time and again he repeated the word, going closer and closer.
Beelzebub stopped her plunging. She cocked forward her ears, straining and listening intently. Phil kept on––as a slow tremor passed over the horse. Slowly the wicked gleam died from her eyes. Phil’s hand reached out and touched her nose. He stroked it cautiously––gently. He reached and whispered the word close in her ear. She sighed almost like a woman. In a moment more Phil’s left hand was on her sleek neck and running 98 over her back. She whinnied, then her nozzle sought his arm and rubbed along it to his shoulder.
She became as quiet as the proverbial lamb.
Langford and Brenchfield came forward, blank amazement showing in their faces.
“By jiminy!––where the dickens did you learn that? Did I mention Lavengro. Lavengro’s a has been, in fact, a never waser alongside that.”
He slapped Phil’s shoulder. “Good old Phil!”
Surly as an old dog, Brenchfield loosened the reins from the hitching post.