"No buck in him!" unctuously observed Dad, without lifting
his chin off the rail. "Ain't there?" said Paddy Maloney, grinning
cynically. "Just you wait!"
It seemed to take the heart out of Dave, but he said nothing. He hitched
his pants and made a brave effort to spit--several efforts. And he turned
pale.
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.
Pages:
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188