on.'

The king began to revive at these hopeful words, and took Moti off to
his stable where he bade him choose for himself any horse he liked.
There were plenty of fine horses in the stalls, but to the king's
astonishment Moti chose a poor little rat of a pony that was used to
carry grass and water for the rest of the stable.

'But why do you choose that beast?' said the king.

'Well, you see, your majesty,' replied Moti, 'there are so many chances
that I may fall off, and if I choose one of your fine big horses I shall
have so far to fall that I shall probably break my leg or my arm, if not
my neck, but if I fall off this little beast I can't hurt myself much.'

A very comical sight was Moti when he rode out to the war. The only
weapon he carried was his staff, and to help him to keep his balance on
horseback he had tied to each of his ankles a big stone that nearly
touched the ground as he sat astride the little pony. The rest of the
king's cavalry were not very numerous, but they pranced along in armour
on fine horses. Behind them came a great rabble of men on foot armed
with all sorts of weapons, and last of all was the king with his
attendants, very nervous and ill at ease. So the army started.

They had not very far to go, but Moti's little pony, weighted with a
heavy man and two big rocks, soon began to lag behind the cavalry, and
would have lagged behind the infantry too, only they were not very
anxious to be too early in the fight, and hung back so as to give Moti
plenty of time. The young man jogged along more and more slowly for some
time, until at last, getting impatient at the slowness of the pony, he
gave him such a tremendous thwack with his staff that the pony
completely lost his temper and bolted. First one stone became untied and
rolled away in a cloud of dust to one side of the road, whilst Moti
nearly rolled off too, but clasped his steed valiantly by its ragged
mane, and, dropping his staff, held on for dear life. Then fortunately
the other rock broke away from his other leg and rolled thunderously
down a neighbouring ravine. Meanwhile the advanced cavalry had barely
time to draw to one side when Moti came dashing by, yelling bloodthirsty
threats to his pony:

'You wait till I get hold of you! I'll skin you alive! I'll wring your
neck! I'll break every bone in your body!' The cavalry thought that this
dreadful language was meant for the enemy, and were filled with
admiration of his courage. M