at him for some minutes before his idea came to him.

Then he flushed a little, his hand clenching on the post beside him. At
first the idea was fascinating, but preposterous; he tried to put it
from him, but it came back persistently, and his mind held it with a
kind of half-fearful excitement. They had said he could not ride him--a
child's pony! Would he show them?

Once he entertained the idea at all he could not let it go. It would be
such an easy way of "coming out on top"--of showing them that in one
thing at least their opinion was worthless. That Jim's words were true,
and that he could not master Bobs, he ridiculed loftily. It was
impossible for him to believe that what a child of fourteen did so
easily he might not be able to do. He had never seen Bobs other than
quiet; and though big and well bred and spirited, he was still only a
pony--a child's pony. Visions floated before him of increased respect
paid him by the men, and even by his uncle, when he should have
demonstrated his ability to manage something better than old Brown
Betty, flicking at the flies in her corner of the yard, with
down-drooped head, and then--he wanted to ride Bobs; and all his life
Cecil Linton had done what he wanted.

He slipped down from the fence and went across to the stables for a
saddle and bridle, entering the harness room a little nervously, but
relieved on finding no men about. Returning, he caught Bobs--who stood
like the gentleman he was--and brought him outside, where his
unaccustomed fingers bungled a little with the saddle. The one he had
chosen in his haste had a breastplate, but this he could not manage at
all; and at last he managed to get the bewildering array of straps off,
and hang it over the fence. He buckled on a pair of spurs he had found
in the harness room. Then he gathered up the reins and clambered into
the saddle. 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