"You hold Dobbin," said Phaeton to me, "while I go in and make arrangements."
I think I held Dobbin about half a minute, at the end of which time he espied an open gate at the head of a long lane leading to the pasture, jerked the halter from my hand, and trotted off at surprising speed. When Phaeton came out of the house, of course I told him what had happened.
"But it's just as well," said I, "for he has gone right down to the pasture."
"No, it isn't just as well," said he; "we must get off the halter and blanket."
"But what about the dog?" said Ned.
"Oh, that one on the steps won't hurt anybody. The savage one is down in the wood-lot."
At this moment a woman appeared at the side door of the farm-house, looked out at us, and understood the whole situation in a moment.
"I suppose you hadn't watered your horse," said she, "and he's gone for the creek."
Phaeton led the way to the pasture, and we followed. I shouldn't like to tell you how very long we chased Dobbin around that lot, trying to corner him. We tried swift running, and we tried slow approaches. I suggested salt. Ned pretended to fill his hat with oats, and walked up with coaxing words. But Dobbin knew the difference between a straw hat and a peck measure.
"I wish I could remember what the book says about catching your horse," said Phaeton.