At The
Moment That I Was Putting The Loop Of His Line On To The Nose-Peg, He
Reared Up And Struck Me On The Chest, His Hobble-Chain Adding Power To
The Blow, Which Sent Me Spinning On To My Back.
For this and other
assaults I meant to punish him, so shortening his hobbles until his
fore-legs were fastened with no more than an inch or two between, I armed
myself with a stout stick.
As I had expected, as soon as I started to put
on his nose-line, off he went as hard as he could, jumping like a
kangaroo, and I after him beating him the while. Round and round we
went, the pace getting slower and slower, until, amidst shrieks of
laughter and shouts of "The Leader wins!" "Bluey wins!" "Stick to it!"
and so forth, from want of breath we came to a stop, and gazed at each
other, unable to go further. It was a tough run, and, like a schoolmaster
caning a small boy, I felt inclined to say, "Remember, my dear Bluey, it
pains me as much as it does you."
The lesson had a most salutary effect, and never again did he gallop away
when being caught in the morning, though he was not a well-behaved beast,
and always the first to give in in the sandhills, even though carrying
the lightest load. His good looks, however, were so much in his favour
that subsequently a wily Afghan paid me a big price for him
(comparatively), and winked to some fellow-countrymen as if he had got
the best of "Eengleeshman." If he was satisfied, I am sure that I was.
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