“Now Tiny Paul make pony gallop,” said the child, hitting the animal with its halter, and urging it on by his voice and heels. Off set the pony; Tiny Paul laughed, and waved his hand to his grandfather.
Tom Smith, instead of following the pony, stopped to speak to the old man.
For an instant Sam’s eyes were off the child.
“Why where is the pony going?” exclaimed Sam, looking up.
The pony was making directly for the big pond.
“Stop him, Paul; stop him, tiny Paul. Pull at the halter, child,” shrieked the old man. “Run after him, Tom; run for your life. Oh mercy! Oh mercy! he’ll be into the water!”
Tom ran as fast as his legs could carry him.
Tiny Paul, though he did not see his danger, pulled at the halter as he was bid; but the old pony’s mouth was too tough to feel the rope in it, and on he went, pleased to have somebody on his back again. It made him think of the days when he had corn to eat, and hay without the trouble of picking it up.
Tom Smith ran, and ran, and shouted to the pony to stop; but his foot went into a drain, and down he came. He jumped up, though he had hurt his leg, and ran on. The pony was close to the pond, which was full of weeds. He was ten yards still behind.