He headed towards them.
Bobs walked on, inwardly seething; jerking his head impatiently at the
unceasing pressure on his bit, and now and then giving a little half
kick that at length attracted Cecil's attention, making him wonder
vaguely what was wrong. Possibly something in the saddle; it had
occurred to him when cantering that his girth was loose. So he
dismounted and tightened it, bringing it up with a jerk that pinched
the pony suddenly, and made him back away. This time Cecil did not find
it so easy to mount. He was a little nervous as he rode on--and there is
nothing that more quickly communicates itself to a horse than
nervousness in the rider. Bobs began to dance as be went, and Cecil,
hauling at his mouth, broke out into a mild perspiration. He decided
that he was not altogether an easy pony to ride.
A hare jumped up abruptly in the grass just ahead. Bobs shied and
plunged--and missing the hand that always understood and steadied such
mistaken energy, gave a couple of rough "pig-jumps." It was more than
enough for Cecil; mild as they were, he shot on to the pony's neck,
only regaining the saddle by a great effort. The reins flopped, and the
indignant Bobs plunged forward, while his rider clawed for support, his
feet and hands alike flying.
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