"Well, old son--will he do?"
"Do!" said Jim, weakly. "Dad!--by Jove, I--I--" He stopped helplessly;
then his hand went out and took his father's in a grip that made David
Linton realize that this big son of his was nearly a man.
"Oh, Jimmy, I'm so glad--and isn't he lovely?"
"Why, he's perfect," Jim said, stepping back and running his eye over
his Christmas box. "My word, Dad, he'll jump!"
"Yes, he'll jump all right," said David Linton. "Gallop, too, I should
say."
"Plenty!" said Billy, with unexpected emphasis, whereat every one
laughed.
"Billy and Norah have had this little joke plotted for some time," Mr.
Linton said--"and the experiences they have undergone in keeping strings
and steed out of your way this morning have, I believe, whitened the
hair of both!"
Jim looked gratefully round.
"You're all bricks," he said. "Has he got a name, Dad?"
"'A tearin' foine wan,' Murty says," responded his father; "since it's
Irish: Garryowen, unless you'd like to change it."
"Not me!" said Jim. "I like it." He looked round as the sound of the
gong came across the garden. "I say, don't mind me," he said--"go into
breakfast. I don't want any this morning." His eye went back to the
bay.
"Rubbish!" said his father--"he'll be alive after breakfast! Come
along," and reluctantly Jim saw Billy lead his horse away to the
stable.
Pages:
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158