Possibly, had he let Bobs feel the spur, his ride would
have ended there and then, and there would have been no further
developments in Cecil's excursion; and it is certain that he would have
spurred him cheerfully, had not the pony moved off at once. As it was
he sat back and felt exceedingly independent and pleased with himself.
He turned him down the home paddock.
"Phwat are y' doin' on that pony?"
Murty O'Toole had come out of the men's quarters, and was gazing
open-mouthed at the unfamiliar figure on Bobs--"the city feller," for
once not apparelled in exaggerated riding clothes, but in loose
flannels; already the legs of the trousers had worked up from his low
shoes, disclosing a vision of brilliant sock. Cecil took no notice.
"Hallo, there! Shtop a minnit! Who put y' on Bobs?"
"Mind your own business," said Cecil, between his teeth, looking round.
"My business, is it? Sure, 'tis my business, if 'tis anny man's on
Billabong! Did Miss Norah say y' could ride her pony?"
"What's that to you?"
"Be gob!" said Murty, "'tis more to me than it is to you, seein' 'tis
meself knows Miss Norah's feelin's an' disposition about Bobs! Did she
give y' leave? Tell me, or I'll pull y' off, if y' was the Boss' nevvy
ten times over!"
"WILL you?" Cecil spat the words at him bitterly.
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