As he dropped back into the saddle, the
spurs went home; and Bobs bolted.
He had never in his life felt the spur; light and free in every pace,
Norah's boot heel was the utmost correction that ever came to him. This
sudden cruel stab on either side was more than painful--it was a sudden
shock of amazement that was sharper than pain. Coming on top of all his
grievances, it was too much for Bobs. Possibly, a mad race would rid
him of this creature on his back, who was so unlike his mistress. His
heels went up with a little squeal as he bounded forward before
settling into his stride.
Cecil gave himself up for lost from the first. He tugged frantically at
the rein, realizing soon that the pony was in full command, and that
his soft muscles might as well pull at the side of a house as try to
stop him. He lost one stirrup, and clung desperately to the pommel
while he felt for it, and by great good luck managed to get his foot in
again--a piece of good fortune which his own efforts would never have
secured. The pommel was too comforting to be released; he still clung
to it while he tried to steady himself and to see where he was going.
The plain ended abruptly just before him, and the rough hills sloped
away to the south. Perhaps, if he put Bobs at the steepest it might
calm him a little, and he might be able to pull him up.
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