And, feeling
all this, Four-legs, foaming with rage, his nostrils flaring, turned
upon his foe with snapping teeth, found him out of reach, and so
sought to play off an old trick that had served him more than once;
he would smash his rider's leg against a post or wall, or brush him
off altogether and get rid of him that way. But lo! even as he leapt
in fulfilment of this manoeuvre, his head was wrenched round,
further and further, until he must perforce, stop--until he was
glaring up into the face above, the face of his bitter foe, with its
smiling mouth, its glowing eye, its serene brow.
"Time's up!" cried the Captain, suddenly; "b'gad, sir, you win the
bet!" But Barnabas scarcely heard.
"You've done it--you win; eleven and a half minutes, b'gad!" roared
the Captain again--"don't you hear, sir?--come off, before he breaks
your neck!"
But Barnabas only shook his head, and, dropping the stick, leaned
over and laid his hand upon that proud, defiant crest, a hand grown
suddenly gentle, and drew it down caressingly from ear to quivering
nostril, once, twice, and spoke words in a soft tone, and so,
loosed the cruel grip upon the rein, and sat back--waiting.
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