Paddy was now holding Callaghan's head at arms'-length by the bridle and one ear, for Dave to mount.
A sharp crack of thunder went off right overhead. Dave did n't hear it.
"Hello!" Dad said, "We're going to have it—hurry up!"
Dave did n't hear him. He approached the horse's side and nervously tried the surcingle—a greenhide one of Dad's workmanship. "Think that'll hold?" he mumbled meekly.
"Pshaw!" Dad blurted through the rails—"Hold! Of course it'll hold—hold a team o' bullocks, boy."
"'S all right, Dave; 's all right—git on!" From Paddy Maloney, impatiently.
Paddy, an out-and-out cur amongst horses himself, was anxious to be relieved of the colt's head. Young horses sometimes knock down the man who is holding them. Paddy was aware of it.
Dave took the reins carefully, and was about to place his foot in the stirrup when his restless eye settled on a wire-splice in the crupper—also Dad's handiwork. He hesitated and commenced a remark. But Dad was restless; Paddy Maloney anxious (as regarded himself); besides, the storm was coming.
Dad said: "Damn it, what are y' 'FRAID o', boy? THAT'll hold—jump on."
Paddy said: "NOW, Dave, while I've 'is 'ead round."