He made life so interesting to all his friends that they decided he must have a better handle than “Torrington.” So they sat upon him, one evening; one on his face and another on his chest, while a third tied up his legs. This was so that he could not interfere with their important decision. Darby looked very patient and folded his hands and whined like a small dog, after kicking Left Eared Dongan vigorously; so they named him “Poodle,” and made him beg for small sticks, out in the Yard.
It was Poodle Darby who was riding behind Hike Griffin, along the canyon trail, making the day hideous by singing that good California chant, “Hallelujah, I’m a bum.”
They had been out on the trip for four days, and the excellent Poodle had sung that thing ninety thousand, seven hundred and steen times, Hike figured.
“Come on, Poodle; we’ll have to hustle if we’re going to reach the top of the trail for camp to-night,” Hike shouted.
“Oh, why don’t you work, as other men do—
All right then, hike, Hike, and I’ll fol-lol-low you!”
So Poodle carelessly bawled back, and ground his heel into the side of his horse, kicking it into a canter.
The horse started. A rock slipped on the hillside above and rattled down, striking her flank. She flung up her head. Poodle vainly pulled on the rein, as she pranced skittishly.
Her back feet slipped. Over the side of the trail she slid. She pawed furiously with her front hoofs, but could not get hold of the slippery rock. She was surely sinking—close to the drop of a thousand feet.
For a moment her rear hoofs stuck, safe, on a tiny ledge.