“Wait. How far is you come to-day?” demanded Robin.
“About forty miles. I took it easy.” He turned the horse's head.
The old man gave an exclamation, part oath, part entreaty, and grabbed for the reins just as the boy was turning toward the track, where a whitewashed board fence stood over four feet high.
“Wait—whar you gwine! Forty mile! Whar you gwine? Wait!”
“Over into the track. That fence is nothing.”
He settled himself in the saddle, and the horse threw up his head and drew himself together. But old Robin was too quick for him. He clutched the rider by the leg with one hand at the same time that he seized the bridle with the other.
“Git off him; git off him!” Without letting go the bridle, he half lifted the boy from the saddle.
“That won't hurt him, Uncle Robin. He 's used to it. That fence is nothing.”
“Gi' me dis hoss dis minute. Forty mile, an' 'spec' to run to-morrow! Gi' me dis hoss dis minute, boy.”
The young owner yielded with a laugh, and the old trainer took possession of the horse, and led him on, stopping every now and then to run his hand over his sinewy neck and forelegs, and grumbling to himself over the rashness of youth.