Norah's pony was standing near an old black horse for which he had a
great affection. They were nearly always to be found together in the
yards or paddocks. Even unbrushed as he was, the sunlight rippled on
his bay coat when he moved, showing the hard masses of muscle in his
arched neck.
"Beauty, ain't he?" It was Mick Shanahan, on his way to another paddock
to bring in some colts. He pulled up beside Cecil, the youngster he was
riding sidling impatiently.
"Yes, he's a nice pony," said Cecil, without enthusiasm.
"Well, I've seen a few, but he beats 'em all," said the horsebreaker.
"A ringer from the time he was a foal--and he's only improved since I
first handled him, four year ago. Worth a pot of money that pony is!"
He laughed. "Not as his particular owner'd sell him, I reckon. Miss
Norah acts more by that chap than by anything else she's got!"
"I suppose so," Cecil said, seeing that he waited for a reply.
"Yes, my word! Take 'em all round, they'd be hard to beat as a pair,"
said Mick, lighting his pipe in apparent ignorance that his horse was
indulging in caracoles that appeared likely to end in a bucking
demonstration. He threw the match away after carefully extinguishing
it, and puffed out a cloud of smoke. "Quiet, y' image, can't y'? Who's
hurtin' y'? Well, I must be goin'--so long.
Pages:
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244