"....very mysterious person," Sir Mortimer was saying, "nobody
knows him, devilish odd, eh, Tressider? Tufton Green dubbed him the
'Galloping Countryman,'--what do you think of the name?"
"Could have suggested a better, curse me if I couldn't, yes, Carnaby,
oh damme! Why not 'the Prancing Ploughman,' or 'the Cantering
Clodhopper'?" Here Sir Mortimer laughed loudly, and the thinnish,
youngish gentleman giggled again.
Barnabas frowned, but looking down at the red rose upon his breast,
he smiled instead, a little grimly, as he settled his feet in the
stirrups, and shortening his reins, sat waiting, very patiently. Not
so "The Terror." Patient, forsooth! He backed and sidled and tossed
his head, he fidgeted with his bit, he glared viciously this way and
that, and so became aware of other four-legged creatures like himself,
notably of Sir Mortimer's powerful gray near by, and in his heart he
scorned them, one and all, proud of his strength and might, and sure
of himself because of the hand upon his bridle. Therefore he snuffed
the air with quivering nostril, and pawed the earth with an
impatient hoof,--eager for the fray.
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