Six Ponies

Noel and Henry 01

Josephine Pullein-Thompson

1. Chapter I

2. Chapter II

3. Chapter III

4. Chapter IV

5. Chapter V

6. Chapter VI

7. Chapter VII

8. Chapter VIII

9. Chapter IX

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List of Illustrations

• I do hope she doesn’t charge out of the ring again

• She became more serious trying to think of ways to make money

• The standard of horsemanship was very low

• When she had had about a dozen tries the Major said it was hopeless

• “He might give me some weeding to do”

• “Oh! aren’t they lovely?”

• She managed Black Magic quite easily

• A large brown pony eating apples and carrots as fast as he could

• The backing of Grey Dawn was very successful

• She allowed herself to be caught

• He hit her savagely several times with his whip

• Just like a real circus pony

• “She’s got her on the right leg”

• Rusty jumped a clear round with everything

• Over a bank and down into the road

• “Whoa, Romany, whoa”

• Sunset lashed out

• Hilary rode homewards through the faint drizzle

• “She’s grown, hasn’t she?”

• Margaret was the first person to get her pony settled for the night

• She cantered a figure of eight

• Now Noel was really enjoying herself

Chapter I

“WELL DONE, June!” said Mrs. Cresswell as her daughter cantered out of the ring with yet another red rosette.

“Tie it on, Mummy,” said June, handing her mother the rosette.

“Golden Wonder does look smart with two red ones,” said Mrs. Cresswell.

“I hope both the prizes are cups,” said June, “then I’ll have thirty; though, actually, two of them are challenge cups.”

“Well, you’ll only have to win them twice more and then they’ll be yours,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “And I don’t suppose that’ll be very difficult, since all the children round here are such appalling riders. I’ve just been having a look at the Barington-Brown child’s pony,” she went on, “and a very good one it is too. You’ll have to be careful next time there’s a showing class, for I don’t think there’s much to choose between her and Wonder.”

“Riding makes a lot of difference,” said June, “and if Susan rides like she did to-day it’ll be another walk-over for me. What a bore these gymkhana events are,” she went on. “I suppose we’ve got to sit and watch them until the prize-giving.”

“Why don’t you enter?” asked her mother. “You might win another prize.”

“Oh, Wonder’s no good at that sort of thing,” replied June, “and I don’t want to be made to look a fool.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “Though I think you would probably win—riding must count, even in gymkhana events.”

“I dare say it’s all right for those cart-horsy old ponies with mouths of iron,” said June, “but I don’t want to spoil Wonder’s mouth, and she’d be sure to hot up if I started to gallop her. Anyway, I’m not going to enter. I do wish they’d hurry up and have the prize-giving.”

The competitors for class three, children’s bending race, were waiting in the collecting ring. Among them sat John Manners, a stocky, dark-haired boy of about thirteen, on a roan cob. John was in a very bad temper, and Dick Turpin, the cob was rather excited. He danced about and barged his quarters into the other ponies. John jagged him in the mouth and said, “Stand still, can’t you?” at intervals. It was the jumping that had put John in a bad temper. It was all very well for mum to say that Turpin was getting on and couldn’t be expected to jump as well as he used to. She didn’t know how maddening it was to be beaten, time after time, by June Cresswell, when you were sure you were the better rider. It wasn’t as if he could beat her in the races either, for she never went in for them—she probably realised that she wouldn’t stand a chance against him and the Radcliffes. He did wish dad would buy him a pony that could jump. As for the best-rider class this morning, that simply hadn’t been fair. June Cresswell had only won because Golden Wonder was a properly trained show pony, which could change legs, while Turpin had never been taught to do that sort of thing. He was more of a hunter. But if I had Golden Wonder, thought John, gosh! wouldn’t I show them something. . . .

Next to John, on a small bay pony with a very large head, sat Noel Kettering. Her jodhs, which were too big for her, had slipped up; her shirt, which was too small for her, had come untucked from her jodhs, and her hair was in its usual untidy state. But Noel was past caring; she felt icy cold and slightly sick. She thought, this awful “needle,” and I’m sure to let Topsy down again. Miss Lamb says she’s marvellous at bending, so it must be my fault, but I really don’t see how I can get her to turn quicker at the end when she won’t stop. I do hope she doesn’t charge out of the ring again . . . it was awful in the jumping . . . I’m sure Miss Lamb was furious, but I don’t see how I was to get Topsy over; she’s so terribly nappy. How I wish I were a better rider, could jump four foot and win the novice jumping on a lovely pony of my own. I wish I had a rich uncle who would die and leave me a hundred pounds. But those sort of things only happen in books, and, anyway, if the uncle was nice enough to leave me anything I probably wouldn’t want him to die. Anyhow, Topsy, isn’t at all bad really—I expect most of it’s my riding—and it’s jolly nice of Miss Lamb to lend her to me. . . .

“Mummy, Mummy,” shrieked Jill Morrisson, “I can’t get Wendy’s girths to meet, and I ought to be in the collecting ring!”

“All right, darling,” said Mrs. Morrisson in the affected voice in which she always talked to children, “don’t panic, there’s plenty of time.”

“Oh, Jill, you are stupid. Can’t you even saddle a pony yet?” asked her brother Richard in patronising tones.

“Of course I can,” said Jill. “But Wendy keeps blowing herself out, and I bet you couldn’t do it.”

“I bet I could,” said Richard. “I can always saddle Peter, and he’s nearly two hands bigger. But, then, you’re only a girl, and girls can’t do anything.”

“Girls can,” said Jill. “I can do lots of things you can’t.”

“Now, children,” said Mrs. Morrisson, “stop quarrelling. You must be overtired. I think you’d better go home directly after the potato race.”

“No, no!” shrieked Jill. “We must watch the novice jumping to see how Major Holbrooke jumps.”

“Anyway, I’m not going home until the end,” said Richard. “You and daddy both said last night we could stay until it finished, and you can’t change your mind now.”

“All right, then, darling,” said his mother. “But don’t overdo it, or let little Jilly tire herself out.”

As he waited in the collecting ring, Richard thought how tiresome his mother was, and wondered what the chaps at his school would say if they could see him now. Peter was a pretty good-looking pony—he sometimes won in showing classes—but, of course, he didn’t touch Golden Wonder. Richard wished Peter was better at gymkhana events. He would like to show that conceited John Manners that he wasn’t the only person who could ride; but, best of all, he would like to win the jumping. Peter wasn’t bad; they generally got round; but he was rather careless and usually knocked a great many jumps down with his forelegs. Richard had been told that he took off too close; but he was always much too busy staying on to do anything about Peter, and, anyway, he didn’t see how you could make a pony take off where you wanted him to. . . .

Jill Morrisson thought that none of the other ponies was nearly as pretty as Wendy, with her long mane and tail. Richard might say she looked like a Shetland pony and jolly silly, but he was awfully tiresome since he had been at a boarding-school. Once he had liked Wendy’s mane and tail and her name—she’d been given to them just after they had seen Peter Pan—now he said Peter Pan was only fit for girls and babies, and he had been livid when mummy had made him call his new pony Peter Pan so that he would go with Wendy. Actually he never called him Peter Pan, but Peter, or sometimes Pete. Jill wished she had a sister, for Richard spent all day fretsawing or reading books about cowboys, and when she wanted him to play with her he only said girls were feeble and couldn’t do anything sensible. . . .

Susan Barington-Brown, dressed in expensive but ill-fitting riding clothes, rode her dark brown pony Beauty into the collecting ring. It was Susan’s first show, and she almost wished that she had stayed at home, in spite of the third prize, which she had won in the best-rider class. She loved riding, but she didn’t think she liked gymkhanas much. Daddy hadn’t been able to come—he had had to go to London on business; and mummy was afraid of horses; and neither she nor Valerie, Susan’s sister, would take any interest in riding. In the end, Bob, the under-gardener, who looked after Beauty, had been sent, and he was awfully tiresome. When she had won the third prize he had told her how marvellous she was, though Susan had explained that it was entirely due to Beauty, which had gone on the right leg every time when she, Susan, had forgotten the aids again. He had said “shoo,” and waved his arms as they went over the practice jump—a thing Mrs. Maxton had told her you must never do. Then, when she had had three refusals at the first jump in the children’s jumping, he had said that Beauty needed someone behind her with a whip. Susan knew very well that it was because she hadn’t used her legs enough. Now, when she wanted to ask him if he had seen Beauty’s head-collar, he had disappeared into the refreshment tent. But far worse than Bob’s tiresomeness were the things she had overheard the Radcliffes saying about her. They always did shout. One of them—she thought it was Evelyn—but they all had red hair and freckles—was telling the others what a frightful rider Susan was, and how she would never have won third in the riding class but for the fact that her father was very rich and could afford to buy her a perfectly schooled pony and pay a groom to look after it. Susan knew this was true, but Evelyn had gone on to say that she was frightfully feeble, had fallen off at every pony club rally she had ever been to, and was ruining Beauty’s mouth and manners. Susan decided that she hated the Radcliffes, and she felt she must go to at least one more show and win the jumping. But even then, she thought, they’re sure to say that Bob has been schooling Beauty for me. And, anyway, they’re probably quite right for Beauty is easily the best-looking and best-schooled pony here, and would win everything if only she had a better rider. . . .

The five red-headed Radcliffes were, as usual, making more noise than all the rest of the competitors put together. The three eldest—Roger, and the twins Hilary and Evelyn—were entering for the bending, but James and Margaret were considered too young to ride in gymkhanas. However, they were discussing, in very loud and perfectly audible voices, whom they would like to be bucked off so that their family could be first, second and third. Roger said that John Manners would be first, Clarrissa Penn second, and Dick Hayward third. But Evelyn said that was nonsense. Clarrissa might have been second in the jumping, but she had never been known to win a prize for bending yet, and that either she—Evelyn—or Hilary had beaten Dick Hayward in every race last summer. Roger said Evelyn was conceited, and Evelyn said she wasn’t, and that there was a great deal of difference between being conceited and knowing who was a worse rider than you. Roger said he didn’t want to win races; he wanted to win the jumping, and it was awful to think that he was fourteen and had never won a jumping event yet. Then Hilary, the quietest member of the family, said that she was sure that Roger would do jolly well in the jumping if he had a pony like Golden Wonder. “Races,” she went on, “seem to me to be the only events your pony doesn’t count in. Even in best-rider classes it is obviously the pony, for the two people with show ponies were in the first three this morning.”

“Well, it’s no good discussing hypotheses,” said Roger. “And Major Holbrooke will soon tell us whether it’s us or our ponies when he starts running the Pony Club.”

“You don’t mean to say you’re going to join?” asked Evelyn.

“I thought you said you were too old for that sort of thing,” said Hilary.

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t join if I want to,” said Roger. “The only reason I didn’t go before was because I couldn’t stand that dreadful Miss Mitchell—ugh! she wore a hair-net!”. . .

Major Holbrooke, M.F.H., sat on his shooting-stick in the middle of the ring with his fellow-judges, Sir William Blount, M.F.H., and Captain Julian Barton, a well-known equitation expert. Their tempers, already frayed by the best-rider class, were becoming shorter and shorter every moment as they watched the jumps removed from the ring and the bending-poles put up. They agreed that the stewards were incompetent, the committee impossible, and the standard of riding shocking. Captain Barton said that he didn’t mind bending competitions if they were used as a means to an end; but at gymkhanas, most of the competitors were far too keen on winning, and nearly pulled their wretched ponies’ heads off in the process. Sir William said he entirely agreed, and that he knew from experience that the children in these parts were exceptionally bad about that sort of thing. But now that Holbrooke had taken over the Pony Club he expected things would change. Major Holbrooke didn’t say anything, for he was wondering whether Blake, his stud-groom, and Gay Crusader had arrived safely, and whether Crusader was much upset by the crowd, for it was his first show.

Then, at last, the bending race started. There were a great many heats, but a very low standard of riding. Noel Kettering and Susan Barington-Brown both fell off, while Jill Morrisson was removed from the ring, on the word go, by her rather stubborn Dartmoor pony. John Manners, Dick Hayward, Richard Morrisson and the three Radcliffes all won their heats, and in the end the event was won by John Manners, with Roger and Hilary Radcliffe second and third. Evelyn Radcliffe won the potato-race, with John Manners second and Hilary third.

Then, as all the children’s events were over, most of the parents began to make their families collect their possessions. Susan Barington-Brown couldn’t find Beauty’s head-collar anywhere. She was very upset, for her father had given it to her on her birthday. But, just as she was despairing, Bob appeared from the refreshment tent with it. John Manners had lost his riding-stick, and he was afraid his father would be cross, as he had given it to him for Christmas. But in the end he found it under the Morrissons’ car. The Radcliffes had lost two bowler hats, a satchel and a dandy-brush; but after a frantic search they found everything except the dandy-brush, and, as they wanted to see Major Holbrooke jump, they had to stop looking.

Nearly everyone was pleased when Major Holbrooke and Gay Crusader jumped a clear round, for the Major was a very popular M.F.H., especially with the children; for though he told everybody exactly what he thought of them if they talked at covert side, rode on seeds, left gates open or committed any of the other hundred-and-one crimes one unwittingly commits in the hunting-field, he never bore malice, and he always arranged at least one children’s meet in the Christmas holidays and let the children be the master and whippers-in. Major Holbrooke was the only competitor to do a clear round. There wasn’t a very high standard of jumping, for Brampton was only a small local show. Mrs. Maxton, who owned the riding-school at Basset, was second with half a fault. Susan Barington-Brown was pleased at this, as she had riding lessons from Mrs. Maxton and liked her very much. Joan Brent, a local farmer’s daughter, was third with two faults. She had ridden a cob with a Roman nose, which jumped very well. Then, after the prize-giving and several very dull speeches, everyone went home.

Sir William Blount found his Daimler and chauffeur, Captain Barton his battered Ford. Major Holbrooke said he would ride Gay Crusader home, and asked his wife to take Blake in the car.

Susan Barington-Brown rode home, with Bob bicycling beside her. He was an annoying companion, as he would tell her what a marvellous rider June Cresswell was, and although Susan had been wishing all day that she were half as good, she found this very irritating. Also, he wanted her to trot, and Mrs. Maxton had often told her that you shouldn’t trot much on the roads, as it is bad for your pony’s legs. But the rosette on Beauty’s bridle made up for a great deal, even though it was only a third, and Susan knew that she didn’t deserve it. . . .

June Cresswell sulked most of the way home because her mother hadn’t let her have the trailer. She had said that it wasn’t worth while, when they only lived three miles from the show ground, and that the hack would do Wonder good. But June liked to feel superior at local shows, where she was the only child with a horse-box, so when her mother asked her whether she had enjoyed herself, she said, “Quite; but it was a potty little show, the cups weren’t very big, and on the whole I think I prefer Richmond.”

The Radcliffes took a long time to ride the four miles back to Little Hogshill, where they lived, for, like all large families, they had to work out the complicated turns. James and Margaret had to ride home, as they hadn’t entered for anything, so they had Pixie and Darkie; while Roger, Hilary and Evelyn took it in turns to ride Northwind and the two bicycles, whose names were Satan and Spitfire.

Noel Kettering gave Topsy to Miss Lamb, who was going to lead her home off her flea-bitten grey horse Warrior; because it was too late for Noel to ride all the way to the Hatch-gate, where Miss Lamb lived, and then walk home. So, after thanking her for the loan of Topsy, Noel started for Russet Cottage, which was only a mile from the show ground if you went across the fields. At first she pretended to be a nervous thoroughbred, and cantered along, bucking and shying, but after a bit she became more serious, and walked sedately, trying to think of ways to make money to buy a pony of her own. . . .

Richard and Jill Morrisson actually managed to get home without quarrelling. They discussed everyone’s riding, and finally agreed that, if Richard had had Golden Wonder and Jill had had Beauty, they would certainly have won something; but that all the same they would rather have Wendy and Peter any day. When they got home they turned the ponies out and went into supper, which consisted, as usual, of fruit, biscuits and milk—which Richard considered a fearful disgrace now that he was thirteen and had proper dinner at school. . . .

John Manners was one of the last of the competitors to get home; for Basset is five miles from the little market town of Brampton and Lower Basset Farm, where John lived, is some two miles farther on. Colonel and Mrs. Manners, who hadn’t gone to the horse show because the Colonel was helping with the harvest, were both waiting at the gate when John arrived, and they were delighted to see the first and second rosettes on Turpin’s bridle.

“Well done, my boy! Well done!” shouted the Colonel as soon as John was within hearing distance. “In the money again, I see.”

“Yes, Dad,” said John. “First in the bending and second in the potato-race. Not bad, was it? But old Turpin simply wouldn’t jump—that conceited June Cresswell won both the jumping and the riding class.”

“That Cresswell girl won the riding class?” roared the Colonel. “Those judges ought to be shot. Look how she jumps—half-way up her pony’s neck! May be all right for this highfalutin’ show-jumping business, but where would she be in the hunting-field, where would she be if her pony pecked? No, my boy,” he went on more quietly, “it’s no disgrace not to be in the money if that’s the sort of riders they like. You’d soon show these pot-hunters what’s what in the hunting-field. . . .”

Major Holbrooke called the dogs and went out into the velvet darkness of the fast-gathering dusk. He walked down to the stable yard to give the three horses, which were stabled, a last pat. Nothing Venture, the big chestnut show-jumper, whinnied softly, Gay Crusader’s bay head and the grey one of Harmony, the Anglo-Arabian show hack, appeared over their loose-box doors—Major Holbrooke produced three apples from his pockets. . . .

Far away down in the valley, John Manners, an overcoat and gum-boots over his pyjamas, was slamming the henhouse doors vindictively—he had forgotten to shut the hens up at their proper time—and, on the other side of Brampton, Richard Morrisson finished the last paragraph of his thriller, turned out the torch, with the aid of which he had been reading under the bedclothes, and went to sleep.

Chapter II

MAJOR HOLBROOKE finished his bacon and eggs, threw The Times on the floor, and started to open his post. After opening several letters from people who wanted to sell him horses, hounds’ food, and saddlery, he found one from a “horsy” cousin who lived in Hampshire near the New Forest. While he was reading it, Mrs. Holbrooke came down to breakfast. The first thing which caught her eye was the discarded Times.

“Really, George,” she said, “is it necessary that you should throw the paper on the floor? I haven’t read it yet.”

“Sorry, dear,” said Major Holbrooke meekly, as he picked up The Times and threw it on the nearest chair. “But I have a very interesting letter from Cousin Harry. You know those pony foals he bought several years ago, when they were so cheap they were being killed and sold as veal?”

“Yes, I remember,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. “I always thought it was the only good thing that that dreadful bore Harry ever did.”

“I should hardly say that,” said the Major. “But I will admit that he’s the most insufferable old bore that ever lived, especially when he tells you about the good old days in Poona! Anyway, these ponies are now four-year-olds, and, though they are quiet to handle, they have never been ridden, and Harry is at his wits’ end to know what to do with them. Apparently there is no one small enough who is capable of breaking a pony in his part of the world.”

“I expect Harry thinks breaking is a Wild West operation,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. “But what does he expect you to do?”

“Perhaps he thinks the Pony Club is full of efficient young horse-breakers,” suggested the Major.

“It’s an idea,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. “But I doubt whether you’d find six children good enough whose parents would allow it. Let’s see. There’d be June Cresswell—”

“It’s not only the riding which counts,” interrupted the Major; “it’s horse-sense and tact—so they’ll keep out of trouble. That’s more important than being able to stick on when you’ve started it.”

“Well, there’s the Radcliffes,” said Mrs. Holbrooke dubiously. “But they’re rather wild and noisy.”

“I should be near to help any one who got into difficulties,” said the Major thoughtfully. “Yes, I think it might be done. Anyway, I’ll write to Harry to-night, and, if he thinks it a good plan, I’ll suggest it at the Pony Club rally on Friday. . . .”

Friday was a perfect day: the sun shone out of a clear blue sky and there was a slight breeze. As the Pony Club members made their various ways to Folly Court—Major Holbrooke’s ancestral home—they all decided that it would be fine, and stopped anxiously scanning the horizon for clouds, as they had been doing ever since they wakened that morning.

The Radcliffes hadn’t far to go—it was only a matter of three miles from Little Hogshill; and as, for once, they started in good time, they didn’t have to hurry their ponies, which arrived looking very smart. John Manners, on the other hand, had lain in bed much later than he meant to, and when he had got up he had been hindered at every turn. First of all Turpin had been tiresome to catch—partly because John had forgotten his usual apple, and had been too lazy to go back and fetch one. And when at last he did catch him, it was only to find he had a loose shoe. John knew this was his own fault, because his mother had reminded him to look at them the day before, and he, thinking she was interfering, had rudely replied that of course they were all right, and then forgotten to look. Knowing he was in the wrong did nothing to improve John’s temper, and, as he rode the four miles to the forge at Little Hogshill, he vented his anger on Dick Turpin, whacking him whenever he shied and making him trot nearly the whole way. When he got to the forge, John, instead of asking the blacksmith politely to be as quick as he could, said he must have his pony shod by half-past ten. This didn’t make Mr. Hodges, the blacksmith—who was a very obstinate man—at all inclined to hurry, and it was five minutes to eleven by the time Turpin was done. As soon as he was ready John mounted and rode away, without even saying, “Thank you,” while Mr. Hodges vowed that it would take him longer still next time.

John rode the three miles back to Folly Court in twenty minutes, and arrived, hot and cross, with Turpin dripping with sweat, to see June Cresswell riding up the drive without a hair out of place on Golden Wonder, who looked as cool as a cucumber, and shone like gold in the summer sunshine.

However, John wasn’t the last member to arrive. In spite of living only half a mile away, Susan Barington-Brown was late. It wasn’t really her fault, for at the last moment she discovered that Bob had put Beauty’s bridle together all wrong. She had spent ages taking it to pieces and putting it together again, only to find that it was still wrong, whereupon she had put it on in despair, for it was already time for the rally to start. Last of all were the Morrissons. They both arrived in very bad tempers—Richard because his mother had made him ride over with Jill, and Wendy, besides being a much slower walker than Peter, had stopped to graze at intervals, and Jill, because Wendy had been so naughty, and Richard, instead of helping her, had ridden on, stopping occasionally to shout remarks about her feebleness or Wendy’s manners. They joined the other Pony Club members in the big flat field behind the house, and they were just in time to hear the Major finish a short explanation of the day’s programme. Then he asked them all to walk in single file round the four whitewashed posts which marked out a “school” in the middle of the field. At first Major Holbrooke merely told them not to bunch and that there should be a horse’s length between each of them; then he began to look at the riders individually. The standard of horsemanship really was rather low, but it wasn’t altogether the children’s fault, for up to now there had been no one who really knew anything about riding to teach them. Mrs. Maxton, who ran the riding-school at Basset, had rather old-fashioned ideas, and though she taught her pupils to stay on and to control their ponies, they lacked elegance, were bad at jumping, and knew nothing of more advanced equitation. Miss Lamb, who lent Noel Topsy, and Miss Mitchell, the secretary of the Pony Club, were both indifferent riders, and neither of them had studied horsemanship enough to be able to explain it to any one else.

The first thing which caught Major Holbrooke’s eagle eye was Susan’s bridle. He showed her how it should be, and put it right. Then he called a brother and sister, whose names were Anthony and Felicity Rate, into the centre, and explained to them that if they wanted their ponies to walk they must give them a loose rein and allow them to extend their necks. Anthony, who thought he was too old to be taught anything—he was seventeen—tried to argue. He said that Tinker and Topper always jogged, and that if you didn’t hold them on a tight rein they bolted. He was told, quite sharply, that no pony would walk with him hanging on to its head, and that, if they did gallop off, they were only trying to escape from their aching neck muscles.

Then Major Holbrooke made Anthony and Felicity walk round him, and when their ponies jogged—through force of habit—he said, “Pull them up to a walk,” and when they walked, “Now, quickly, give them a loose rein as a reward.” After a few minutes Tinker and Topper seemed to understand, and when they were sent back to their places they only jogged occasionally. This caused a general loosening of reins, for a good many members had thought it necessary to have a firm “feel” on their ponies’ mouths. Then the order to trot was given, and straight away Noel was called in and told not to lean so far forward and not to rest her hands on Topsy’s withers. Noel, overcome by embarrassment, was unable to say anything, and she felt sure the Major thought she was like Anthony and didn’t want to be taught. Several of the smaller children—Jill Morrisson, Simon Wentwood and the Minton boys—were corrected, and then the order was given to canter. Major Holbrooke let those who had got their ponies to canter, canter half-way round the school, and then he called everyone into the middle and asked if any one besides June knew the correct aids to canter on the off leg. Most of the members looked rather blank, and for a bit no one answered. Then a girl of about eighteen, called Joan Melton, said that you pulled with the right rein and kicked with the right leg.

“Well, that’s one way of doing it,” said the Major, “though in my opinion it’s the wrong one. The aids you use,” he said to Joan, “are what are called lateral aids—that is, using the rein and leg on the same side. Now I don’t want to go into controversial subjects to-day, but I much prefer the diagonal aids—that is, to make your pony lead on the off leg you would ‘feel’ your right rein and press with your left leg. To lead on the near leg you would, of course, reverse your aids—‘feel’ the left rein and press with the right leg. Now you,” he said, pointing at Susan, “make your pony canter round on the off leg.”

“Oh, dear,” thought Susan, “I know I shall make a mess of it,” and she gave Beauty a kick with both legs and forgot to “feel” either rein.

“You’re on the right leg,” said Major Holbrooke. “But that was your pony—you didn’t give any aid at all.” And he patiently showed her all over again. This time Susan understood, and she made Beauty lead off correctly to either hand. Several more people tried with varying success, and then Noel, who, after making a complete muddle of it, was forced to admit that she didn’t know her right hand from her left, the near side from the off, and hadn’t the faintest idea how you told which leg you were on. Major Holbrooke explained, to the relief of several of the people who hadn’t tried, but who instantly pretended they had known all along. Noel wasn’t very successful, for Topsy much preferred the near leg, and she obstinately went on it, in spite of the most violent aids to lead on the off one. When she had had about a dozen tries, the Major said it was hopeless, and called the next person. Noel did feel disheartened; even Simon Wentwood seemed a better rider than she, and she thought drearily that she was doomed to go through life a third-rate horsewoman, when she had so wished to be good, and in day-dreams had conceitedly imagined herself as an M.F.H., the fastest woman over sticks in Leicestershire, or winning the open jumping at Olympia.

Scarcely any one managed to get their pony on the right leg the first time; in fact, June Cresswell and Mary Compton were the only ones, and they sat and watched the other members getting hot and bothered with what John Manners told Richard Morrisson were conceited smiles on their faces. John felt particularly cross, because he had always despised this sort of thing and termed it show riding. As he told Richard, his father had never bothered about which leg he was on in India, and he’d been pretty good at polo and pigsticking. Richard said that this fancy stuff was safe and suitable for girls, but for those who weren’t nervous, races were much more fun.

“I can’t understand what the Major sees in it,” said John. “You can’t say he’s a cissy—I mean he’s jolly good at jumping and all that sort of thing, but he’s awfully keen on this stunt too.”

“I suppose there’s something in it,” said Richard, “but I’m blowed if I can see it.”

“Nor me,” said John. “And anyway, what’s the good of it in the hunting-field? I jolly well wouldn’t stop to put Turpin on the right leg when the hounds were running.”

When everyone, except Noel, Jill Morrisson and the Minton boys, who were all dismissed as hopeless, had mastered the diagonal aids, the Major taught them to ride circles, and then they tried some jumping.

The jump was only a small one—in fact, several people were heard to remark that it was “potty”—but Major Holbrooke found fault with everyone’s seat. Even June was corrected. To the great delight of most of the other members, she was told to shorten her reins and put more weight in her stirrups.

“Of course Major Holbrooke believes in the forward seat,” said Mrs. Cresswell to Mrs. Radcliffe, who was beside her, “but it’s quite impractical for showing purposes, and I’d so much rather that June rode with her reins on the long side than too short, like that queer Kettering child.”

Mrs. Radcliffe, who disliked Mrs. Cresswell and was only polite to her because she was one of Dr. Radcliffe’s patients, said that she thought Noel looked rather nice. Mrs. Cresswell gave an affected laugh, and said that of course it was a matter of taste, but she was sure that she would die of shame if her daughter was dressed in such appalling clothes or mounted on such a scruffy pony.

“Well, in my opinion,” said Mrs. Radcliffe, “children get just as much, if not more, fun out of a pony like Topsy than they do out of one that costs three figures and wins at Olympia.”

“Of course I always like to get June the best,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “But I grant you that it’s not every child that can manage a pony with blood in it—a thoroughbred pony like Wonder.”

But it was John who did the worst jump of all; for though he had heard everyone else told to lean forward, he decided that his father knew just as much about riding as Major Holbrooke, who, after all, was only a major, and would have to do as dad told him if they were still in the Army. So when his turn came he jumped with the backward seat as usual. The Major gave a loud roar, which meant, apparently, that the jag John had given Dick Turpin’s mouth was enough to put a pony off jumping for the rest of its life, and that he must lean forward, keep his legs back and his hands down.

“But that’s the forward seat,” said John, deciding that he wasn’t going to be shouted at for nothing, “and my father says it’s hopeless for hunting—if your pony pecks you can’t help going over his head.”

“Oh, heavens,” said Major Holbrooke rather wearily, “I thought that tiresome old theory had died out long ago!” And he went on to explain that a lot of people thought, quite wrongly, that any one who leant forward was jumping with the forward seat, and unfortunately, in England, the number of people who really jumped with the forward seat was very small compared with those who tried to imitate it without knowing the principles. These people generally jumped in “advance” of their horses, with their legs too far back and very little balance or knee grip. They were therefore liable to come off it if anything unexpected happened; but with the correct seat you were perfectly secure, and, borrowing Anthony Rate’s Topper, the Major gave a demonstration, laying special emphasis on the position of the leg and foot, which was, he said, the keynote to the whole seat. From the horse’s point of view he likened the rider who jumped with the forward seat to a well-balanced, firmly-fixed knapsack, while riders like John were satchels, bumping their horses’ loins as they jumped. As for jagging a pony’s mouth, the Major couldn’t believe that the most old-fashioned of fathers thought that a good thing, for it needed very little imagination to realise how painful it must be.

John was furious. He was too conceited to realise what a bad rider he was, and so, instead of feeling grateful for the Major’s corrections, he thought he had been spitefully set upon and made to look a fool in front of all the other members, who, he was sure, were laughing at him. For a moment he thought he would ride away and never come to a beastly Pony Club rally again; but then the Major asked him whether he would like another try, and John, resolving to show he could jump with the forward seat if he wanted to, rode at the jump, hurled himself forward, and banged his nose on Dick Turpin’s hogged mane, which was very prickly, and made his eyes water. However, Major Holbrooke, who was already haunted by remorse for having been so squashing, said that that was jolly good, and John would soon pick it up.

When everyone had done at least one jump fairly well, the Major said it was time to stop. He showed them where the water-trough was, and told them they might tie their ponies to the park rails while they ate their picnic lunches.

Noel had forgotten her halter, so she had to tie Topsy up with her stirrup leathers; and Jill Morrisson forgot to loosen Wendy’s girths. But this was soon pointed out to her by June, much to Richard’s annoyance; for once he took Jill’s part, telling June that she hadn’t forgotten, but was just about to loosen them. However, June squashed him by saying that you should see to your pony before you even unpacked your lunch, and though throughout the rest of the afternoon the most sarcastic replies occurred to him, at the time he said nothing.

The Radcliffes rescued their mother from Mrs. Cresswell, and then they ate their lunch lying on the grass in the park, except for James and Margaret, who climbed one of the giant oaks, which they said was a lighthouse, and made the rest of the family hand their food up to them.

The Morrissons were made to go right away from the ponies and sit on a rug by the car to eat their lunch, which consisted mainly of Rivita and lettuce; while Noel and Susan, neither of whose parents had come, ate theirs together, and found they had many dislikes in common, the chief being June Cresswell and geometry. John Manners ate his cheese sandwiches in silence. Major Holbrooke’s views on the backward seat still rankled in his mind, and he did wish that Mrs. Morrisson, whom he couldn’t bear, would go away, so that he could ask Richard, who he had decided wasn’t “half such a bad chap” after all, his opinion on the best seat over jumps.

Mrs. Cresswell and June ate egg sandwiches and a great many chocolate biscuits. Between the mouthfuls, they pulled everybody’s riding to pieces, until there was only June left to admire.

Noel was in the middle of telling Susan what sort of a pony she would buy if she had had a rich uncle who had died and left her a hundred pounds, when their attention was attracted by a view-holler from the Radcliffes, and Noel saw, to her horror, that Topsy had slipped out of her stirrup leathers and was grazing at the far end of the field.

“Oh, dear,” she said, “I’m sure I shall never catch her.”

“Well, there are plenty of people to help, that’s one good thing,” said Susan, “and I’ve got an apple.”

Together they advanced on Topsy, Noel holding the apple out invitingly, with the stirrup leather concealed behind her back; but Topsy was enjoying the grass far too much to care about apples, and she merely rolled her small, mean eyes, swished her tail, and walked away. Noel and Susan followed her. This went on for some time, and then Topsy got fed up. With a squeal, she swung round her heels and lashed out at them. They both retreated hastily.

“Oh, she is beastly,” said Noel. “I know we shall never catch her.”

“I’m glad Beauty isn’t like that,” said Susan, and they stood looking despondently at Topsy, who tore huge mouthfuls of grass in a triumphant manner. The Radcliffes—who prided themselves on being able to catch anything—soon decided that Noel and Susan were being “jolly feeble,” so they all came across the field to suggest driving Topsy into a corner. Noel, glad of any ideas, agreed, and Roger and Evelyn arranged everyone in a large half-moon; then they all advanced on her. Eyeing them warily, she walked a few steps towards the corner of the field; then suddenly she whirled round. She was intimidated by the waving arms and hair-raising yells of the Radcliffes, but she dodged between Noel and Susan, leaving them both rooted to the spot.

“Oh, you are feeble!” shrieked Evelyn. “Why on earth didn’t you head her off?”

“Sorry,” shouted Noel, as Topsy, headed by John Manners, came galloping back.

“Look out, Roger; she’s coming your way!” shrieked Evelyn. But Topsy dodged Roger and doubled back up the field, to be turned by three of Mrs. Maxton’s pupils, who were Pony Club members—Cynthia Burke and Pat and Charles French. They chased her down the field again, and then several more people joined in, among them Antony Rate on Topper. They all chased Topsy in different directions, waving their arms and giving view-hollers. She grew more and more excited, and finally she dodged everyone, galloped through the gate—which no one had thought of shutting—and thundered up the drive towards the house. Noel was rooted to the spot again, but the Radcliffes raced after her, taking a shortcut across the corner of the park. Noel collected her scattered wits and tore after them, arriving in the garden several lengths behind, but in time to see Topsy career across the smooth green lawn, smash through the herbaceous border, and disappear round the corner of the house.

Major Holbrooke was in the stable yard seeing if Harmony was ready for her demonstration. Hearing the sound of galloping hoofs and the shrieks of the Radcliffes, he hurried into the garden, followed by Blake, to see Topsy tearing across the rose garden pursued by a pack of shrieking children, led by Evelyn Radcliffe. The Major took one look and then, in his best hunting-field voice he bellowed, “Stop chasing that pony!” The result was instantaneous. Everyone stopped in their stride, except Topsy, who disappeared down the path which led to the kitchen garden. The Major took a glance at the rose garden and asked angrily, “What the dickens do you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to catch Topsy,” said Evelyn in a voice which meant, surely any fool can see.

“Well, that’s not the way to catch a pony,” said Major Holbrooke. “Don’t you know yet that you must never chase them? I can’t see much point in my trying to teach you which leg to canter on if you can’t even catch your ponies.” Everyone looked very sheepish except Evelyn, who could never believe she was in the wrong. She said, “Topsy’s not my pony—we can always catch ours; and anyway, we tried to corner her first.”

“Well, it doesn’t make the slightest difference whose pony she is,” said Major Holbrooke sternly. “There is no excuse for chasing her about whatsoever. Who does she belong to, anyway?”

“Me,” said Noel miserably, stepping out from behind the ranks of Radcliffes.

“Why the dickens can’t you tie your pony up properly?” asked the Major.

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Noel, wishing the earth would open and swallow her, “but I forgot to bring a halter, so I had to tie her up with stirrup leathers.”

“If you’d asked me I could easily have lent you one,” he said, and then, “Well, you’d better come and help me catch her, but everyone else can go back to the paddock.” And he led the way into the stable yard. While the Major collected a scoop of oats and a halter, Noel gazed about her. There were twelve lovely loose-boxes, built of mellow red brick on three sides of a square, and over the green doors looked the wise head of Nothing Venture, the alert one of Gay Crusader, Harmony’s exquisite little grey one, and the inquisitive ones of the two youngsters which Major Holbrooke was breaking. The rest of the horses were still out at grass, for it was only the beginning of September. They were exactly the stables Noel had always dreamed of, and she stood spellbound until the Major said, “Come on, let’s go and catch your wretched pony before she does any more damage.”

“I’m awfully sorry about the garden,” said Noel, brought back to reality with a jolt.

“Oh, that’s all right,” said the Major, “but I shall expect you to come and tidy up the mess if the gardeners give notice—ah, there she is!” as they turned a corner and saw two men, evidently gardeners, chasing Topsy off a cabbage bed. “Don’t chase her,” he shouted to the men. “I want to catch her,” and he approached Topsy quietly, holding out the oats and talking to her all the time. She stood like a statue, a cabbage leaf hanging out of one side of her mouth, and let the Major go right up to her. The oats did the rest—she greedily buried her muzzle in the scoop while he slipped the halter round her neck.

“Hurray!” said Noel, though at heart she felt rather annoyed that the Major should catch Topsy so easily when she hadn’t been able to get near her. “Thanks awfully.”

“That’s all right,” said Major Holbrooke, and, handing Noel the halter rope, “here, you take her. I must get Harmony, or those people will be getting restive. Do you know your way back?”

“I think so,” said Noel, and she led Topsy up the path, past the wrecked rose garden and the trampled herbaceous border, to the paddock, where she was met by Susan, who inquired anxiously:

“Was he very cross?”

“No, he was quite agreeable after you’d gone,” said Noel, “but, of course, he hasn’t seen the herbaceous border or the lawn yet.”

“You managed to catch her, then,” said Hilary.

“Yes,” said Noel. “Major Holbrooke caught her quite easily with some oats.”

“I bet you got a blowing up,” said John.

“No, not at all,” said Noel. “He was quite agreeable.”

“Whew!” said John. “He wasn’t very agreeable when I was there.”

“I know; I thought we were going to be chucked out,” said Charles French. “He is a disagreeable old thing.”

“Well, you wouldn’t like it if your garden was spoilt,” said Mary Compton.

“I wouldn’t care,” said Charles. “Our garden’s much too tidy, and no good even for playing hide-and-seek in.”

“I should have thought that any one who really loved horses would like hoof-marks on their lawn,” said Evelyn.

“Not if they liked gardens too,” said Susan.

“Well, she didn’t do much damage,” said Evelyn. “She only squashed a few dull old flowers.”

“No, not much,” said Richard sarcastically; “merely cut the lawn to ribbons, smashed the flowerbeds to smithereens, and ate all the cabbages.”

“Well, it wasn’t our fault,” said Evelyn. “We were trying to catch the beastly pony—he ought to have been grateful.”

“You made everything worse by arguing with him,” said Roger to Evelyn. “I don’t know what you wanted to be so jolly tactless for.”

“I’d rather be tactless than feeble like you,” said Evelyn; “standing there with your mouths open and leaving me to do all the talking.”

“Shut up!” said Hilary. “Here he comes.”

Everyone turned as Major Holbrooke rode into the paddock on Harmony, and almost everyone said, “Isn’t she lovely?” She certainly was beautiful: her perfect proportions, her generous eye, noble head, and grey satin coat. The proud carriage of her Arab sire, allied with the lithe gracefulness of the thoroughbred, combined to make her almost unreal in her loveliness.

“I’m just going to ride round a few times to loosen her up,” said the Major, “and then we’ll try to show you a few things,” and he trotted off round the field.

“Gosh! Golden Wonder isn’t a patch on her, is she?” said John to Richard.

“Gosh, no,” said Richard. “She’s wizard!”

Mrs. Cresswell turned to Mrs. Morrisson, whom she had captured, and said, “That’s just the sort of thing I want for June when she grows out of Wonder.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Morrisson; “but I suppose your little girl is going to take up riding as a career—it’s all she thinks about, isn’t it? But I don’t want Jilly to grow up empty-headed, and, next year, when she goes to a boarding school, she won’t have much time to exercise a very spirited animal, so I’m afraid she’ll just have to carry on with Wendy and Peter. It’s a pity, for she’s a promising little horsewoman, but I do think education’s so fearfully important, don’t you?”

Mrs. Cresswell was saved the trouble of thinking of a rude reply, for at that moment Major Holbrooke, having trotted and cantered round the field several times, called all the members together and started to give them a short lecture on collection. Then he and Harmony demonstrated the difference between the extended and collected paces, and he showed them how all the things they had learnt that morning—circles, passes, back reining and leading off at the canter—should be done, and he finished up with the flying change of leg, which Harmony could do at every stride. It was a perfect display, and the effortlessness with which both horse and rider performed the various movements impressed everyone. As Noel said to Susan, it made one want to get on one’s pony and start improving oneself straight away. She was soon given the opportunity, for, when Major Holbrooke had finished, he said they had time for a short equitation test before tea, and while he took Harmony back to the stable, everyone bridled their ponies and mounted.

The equitation test was quite simple, but it was too difficult for most of the members. You were supposed to walk, trot, and canter collectedly and extendedly, rein back, and, if you were good enough, jump two jumps of two feet six. Only three ponies had any idea of collection. They were Golden Wonder, Beauty, and Mary Compton’s Blackbird. But as June was the only rider in a position to use her legs, she won easily. The Major pointed out to Mary and Susan how difficult they made it for their legs to do any work—Mary, by sticking hers too far forward; and Susan, by being precariously perched on the pommel, instead of sitting down in the saddle. It was impossible to distinguish between the rest of the members’ collected and extended paces, and a few—Jill Morrisson, Simon Wentwood, and Martin, the youngest Minton—were unable to make their ponies leave the others, while Anthony Rate got another lecture for holding Topper on a tight rein. In the end, Roger Radcliffe on Northwind was second, with a nice quiet performance, though entirely without collection, and Diana Melton, Joan’s younger sister, was third on her sensible grey cob Pewit.

Everyone was most annoyed that June had won. John told Richard, as they watered their ponies, that he wished Roger had been first, for he was jolly nice and not at all conceited, while this would make June worse than ever.

The ponies were tied up and each given a small feed to eat, while the Pony Club members had tea on the lawn. Mrs. Holbrooke had provided for large appetites, and there were platefuls of egg sandwiches, fruit-cakes, and chocolate biscuits. But for Noel, the whole meal was ruined by the sight of the trampled herbaceous border and the hoof-marks on the lawn. Whenever Major or Mrs. Holbrooke looked in her direction she felt sure that they were thinking: There’s that feeble, half-witted girl who let her dreadful pony gallop all over the garden—we’ll never ask her again. Actually, they didn’t think this at all, for though it was rather tiresome to have such a mess made of the garden, and they knew that Jenkyns, the head gardener, would grumble, they remembered the days of their youth, when they had let puppies, ponies and even ferrets escape, with disastrous results to hats, asparagus beds, and chickens. But this didn’t occur to Noel; she thought that everyone but herself was frightfully efficient, and never tied knots that came undone or forgot to bring halters.

When everyone had eaten as much as he possibly could, and those parents who were present were telling their families that it was time to go home, Major Holbrooke announced that he had something to say, and asked them all to come a little nearer, because he didn’t want to shout himself hoarse. Everyone crowded round, and, when they had stopped talking, the Major told them about his cousin’s New Forest ponies, and said that anyone who weighed under eight and a half stone and was a fairly competent rider, and whose parents would allow it, could have a pony to break. He explained that the ponies were halter-broken and quite quiet, so that there would be no “rodeo business,” and that he was going to hold special instructional rallies for those who had the ponies and any one else who was interested in breaking and schooling. He also said that two people could share one pony if they liked, as they would want fairly regularly exercise. Any one who wanted a pony was to ring him up before Tuesday, and he would tell them whether he considered them capable of it.

“Oh, I should love one,” said Susan, as the Major finished speaking. “Wouldn’t you, Noel?”

“I’m not nearly a good enough rider,” said Noel gloomily. “I shouldn’t even dare to ask, for I’d probably be told to learn how to tie a pony up properly before I tried to break one in.”

“Well, I don’t suppose mummy will let me have one, even if Major Holbrooke thinks I’m good enough,” said Susan, “and I expect it’s awfully difficult. I wonder who will have them,” she went on. “I expect June will.”

“She’s sure to,” said Noel, “and the Radcliffes and Clarrissa, if she’s not too fat.”

“I’m sure she weighs at least nine stone,” said Susan. “She’s awfully fat, but there’s Dick Hayward, he’s small; and John and Richard, besides Cynthia Burke and the Frenches, who are sure to want them, for they haven’t any ponies of their own.”

“Do you think you’ll be allowed to have one, John?” asked Richard.

“Goodness knows,” said John. “Dad won’t mind if I catch him in the right mood, but mum might think it was dangerous—she’s like that.”

“I don’t think my father would mind,” said Richard. “He doesn’t really care what I do as long as I get a good report from school; but mummy may think an unbroken pony will kick her darling Jill.”

“It would be pretty good if we could have them, though,” said John. “I bet June thinks she’s the only person who can break in ponies.”

“I bet she does,” agreed Richard. “I think it would be a good plan if I asked my mother whether I can have a pony now,” he went on, “for she’s talking to Mrs. Cresswell, and she won’t like to say no if June’s having one.” And he hurried off across the lawn.

“Mummy, mummy!” shrieked all the Radcliffes at once, “we must have at least one pony.”

“For goodness’ sake be quiet,” said Mrs. Radcliffe. “I can’t hear a thing when you all talk at once, and of course you can have a pony—only James and Margaret aren’t to ride it until it’s quiet.”

“Thanks awfully,” said Hilary.

“Hurrah,” said Evelyn.

“Oh, Mummy, why not?” asked Margaret, all at once.

“I’m much too heavy,” said Roger gloomily. “I was nine stone two last holidays. Why didn’t you feed me on gin when I was a baby, Mummy?”

“It’s too expensive, Roger,” said Mrs. Radcliffe absent-mindedly, “and Margaret, you’re too young.”

“I can’t help my age,” said Margaret. “I can jump nearly as high as the others.”

“Oh, you can’t,” said Evelyn; “and, anyway, you’re always falling off.”

“Only sixty-nine times,” said Margaret. “I don’t call that many.”

“For goodness’ sake stop arguing,” said Mrs. Radcliffe, “or I shan’t let you have the pony.”

“Can’t we have two?” asked Hilary, “then we would each have a pony to ride?”

“Yes, we must,” said Evelyn. “It would save all the arranging of turns.”

“No,” said Mrs. Radcliffe, “I think one will be plenty. Major Holbrooke said they needed a good deal of exercise, and when Roger’s at school you won’t want more than four ponies to ride.”

Major Holbrooke was unpopular in a good many homes that night. Tired fathers just back from the office were greeted with: “Can we have one of Major Holbrooke’s ponies, Daddy? Mummy said we were to ask you.” “You’ll drive me into a lunatic asylum if you mention those ponies again,” threatened exasperated mothers.

The Frenches’ father said he would stop their riding lessons for the rest of the holidays if they uttered another word about the Major’s ponies; Mrs. Minton almost sent her family to bed; Clarrissa Penn nearly drove her parents mad because she spent the whole evening grumbling about her fatness, and saying she was going to slim; while Dick Hayward sulked because his parents said that, since he was away at school all the term and had to be coached all the holidays, he couldn’t possibly find time to exercise two ponies; Susan Barington-Brown, having persuaded her father that there was no safer or more fashionable amusement than breaking ponies, hastily retired to bed, and left him to tackle her mother; Margaret Radcliffe grumbled because she wasn’t allowed to ride Hilary’s and Evelyn’s pony; and Hilary and Evelyn grumbled because they weren’t allowed two ponies, and apparently it would be no fun at all if they had to share one. At first Mrs. Radcliffe stood firm, and said one unbroken pony would be plenty. But as the evening wore on she became exasperated by their grumbling, and finally she said she didn’t care what they did as long as they went away and left her in peace. So Evelyn said, “Hurrah!” and Hilary said, “Thanks awfully!” and they both rushed off to ring up Major Holbrooke before she could change her mind.

Mrs. Kettering was nearly driven crazy by Noel wishing she were a good enough rider to have one of the ponies, and cursing fate, which, she said, had condemned her to be a rotten one. To her mother’s suggestion that they should save up for a few lessons at Mrs. Maxton’s, Noel asked what was the good when she didn’t teach you the diagonal aids, and what was the good of knowing the diagonal aids when Topsy wouldn’t go on the off leg whatever you did? Mrs. Kettering said that perhaps when daddy came home and wrote his book they would be richer, and then they would be able to buy Noel a pony. But Noel, who was in a bad temper, said that no one would want to read a book about boring remains in Egypt, so they would never be any richer, and she would have to go riding ponies like Topsy all her life, and she stamped off to bed in a rage, leaving Mrs. Kettering very upset. Noel was generally very good about being poor, and never grumbled when she had to wear her clothes when they were too small or her cousins’ out-grown ones, which were always too big, and Mrs. Kettering wondered whether she had been silly to let her ride when other children were so much better mounted.

Long afterwards, while Noel dreamt that Topsy had escaped again and was wandering down a long corridor, hung with portraits of Major Holbrooke’s ancestors, while she tried to tempt her with a large volume on archæology, Mrs. Kettering sat gazing into the embers of the dying fire, wishing that she could think of a way to make money so that she could buy Noel a pony, and longing for Mr. Kettering, whose name was Charles, to come home so that she could tell him all her worries about Noel’s character. It didn’t occur to her that steel is forged by fire and characters strengthened by difficulties. She wasn’t consoled by the knowledge that people who are really determined to be good at something succeed in the end, and that only the lukewarm and the half-hearted are lost by the way.

Chapter III

DURING the week-end Major Holbrooke had several telephone calls, and on Monday he was able to wire his cousin that he had found people to break all six of his ponies, so would he send them off as soon as possible? Cousin Harry, who was a retired colonel with a walrus moustache, usually took weeks to arrange anything, but to the Major’s surprise he received a wire by return saying that the ponies would arrive next day on the ten-twenty train.

Next morning he almost wished that he hadn’t started the idea, when he and Blake had to make three journeys to Brampton station to fetch all the ponies, none of which liked the thought of going into the trailer at all, and he cursed Cousin Harry heartily in the evening, when he had to ring up the Radcliffes, June Cresswell, John Manners, Susan Barington-Brown, and Richard Morrisson, and tell them all to come to Folly Court on Thursday at ten-thirty.

Of course, all the people who were having ponies became very excited when the Major rang them up; they began to wonder what the ponies would be like, and how he would decide who was to have which. In fact, they talked and thought of nothing else until their parents wished they had never consented to them having a pony. Mr. Morrisson forbade the mention of ponies, or anything connected with them, at meals; Colonel Manners told John that children should be seen and not heard, when he had tried to tell a very dull golfing story for the whole of one lunch-time, and had been unable to get a word in edgeways; Dr. Radcliffe complained bitterly that he had raised a family of horsy bores, and when Mrs. Radcliffe joined in, be retired to the consulting-room and re-read all his books on Philosophy. But Mrs. Cresswell and June had a new subject of conversation. They never ceased discussing how the other members would spoil their ponies and how riding would count and give June another victory. Susan Barington-Brown’s mother disapproved of the whole idea, and, if Susan mentioned the pony, she got a long lecture on how it would be her own fault if she broke her neck or spoilt her appearance, for she should be playing nicely with some other little girl instead of galloping about the countryside and coming home covered in mud. In vain did Susan point out that she didn’t gallop much—it would be bad for Beauty’s legs and manners—for her mother, spurred on by her elder daughter, Valerie, who was twenty-two and had been brought up in the days before Mr. Barington-Brown had made his money, was prepared to find fault with everything Susan did. Unfortunately, Mr. Barington-Brown, who was a very good-natured man and generally kept the peace, was away in Manchester on business, so Susan had no one to support her. On Wednesday morning, after a particularly unpleasant breakfast time, when Valerie said Susan was spoilt, bad-mannered, stupid, ought to be sent to a boarding-school, and couldn’t ride for toffee, and had complained to her mother of her rudeness when she had answered back, Susan felt she could bear it no longer; she saddled Beauty, without looking for Bob, and rode over to Russet Cottage to see Noel.

Noel was also feeling fed-up, for Miss Lamb had gone to Ireland for a holiday, and she had turned Topsy out for one too. As Noel had particularly wanted to practise the diagonal aids, she felt very cross and grumbled that there was nothing to do. When her mother suggested occupations, she replied that she didn’t feel like doing that, or it was no fun by yourself. She had just taken Simple Simon, the golden cocker spaniel, for a walk, and was sitting on the five-barred gate into Farmer Trent’s forty-acre meadow, which was opposite Russet Cottage, trying to think of something else to do, when she heard the sound of hoofs and saw Susan riding up the lane.

“Hallo!” shouted Susan, catching sight of Noel on the gate, and trotting up she said, “The ponies came yesterday, and we’re going to Folly Court to share them out to-morrow. Are you coming?”

“I don’t think I’d better,” said Noel, getting off the gate and patting Beauty. “I mean, I’m not having one, and anyway the Major will probably say he doesn’t want an idiotic person, who can’t even tie her pony up properly, listening to lectures on breaking ponies.”

“Of course he won’t,” said Susan. “He’s probably forgotten all about it by now.”

“Not if the gardeners gave notice,” said Noel. “He might give me some weeding to do.”

“That would be rather fun,” said Susan. “I’d help you, and when he wasn’t looking we could explore the stables.”

“I hate weeding,” said Noel; “it makes my back ache.”

“Oh, do come,” said Susan. “I’m sure he’ll have forgotten all about it.”

“But I haven’t got Topsy, because Miss Lamb has gone away for a holiday; so how am I to get there?” asked Noel.

“Well, if you could walk to my place,” said Susan, “we could take it in turns to ride Beauty to Folly Court, and then perhaps you could come to lunch with me afterwards. I’ll ask mummy. And then we could take it in turns to ride back here.”

“I should love to,” said Noel, unable to resist the thought of so many turns on Beauty, “but I don’t see why I should ride your pony while you walk.”

“Oh, don’t be so silly,” said Susan. “Anyway, you’ll come?”

“O.K.,” said Noel. “What time?”

“Well, we’ve got to be there by half-past ten,” said Susan, “so you’d better come pretty early—ten o’clock at the latest.”

“O.K.,” said Noel again, “I’ll try to be there a bit before so that I can help you get Beauty ready.”

“I expect Bob will do that,” said Susan. “But I’m awfully glad you’re coming; everything will be much more fun. Would you like a ride on Beauty now?”

“I should love one,” said Noel, “but I don’t want to spoil her.”

“I’ve done that already,” said Susan, “and I don’t suppose you’ll make her any worse. Is there a field you could ride her in?”

“Farmer Trent lets me ride in here,” said Noel, opening the gate into the forty-acre meadow. Susan gave her Beauty, and she mounted and rode round the field several times. Then, coming back to Susan, who was sitting on the gate, she said, “She’s lovely—quite different from Topsy; she’s got such a soft mouth and she cantered on the right leg straight away.”

“She is nice, isn’t she?” said Susan. “For, though she’s fresh, you can always pull her up and she’s never nappy.”

“You are lucky,” said Noel, patting Beauty. “I wish I had a pony like her; but I expect she was awfully expensive.”

“Daddy wouldn’t tell me how much she cost,” said Susan, “but I think it was quite a lot, because mummy said it was a waste of money, and Valerie said daddy had never bought her such an expensive present.”

“Is Valerie your sister?” asked Noel.

“Yes, worse luck,” said Susan.

“Don’t you like having a sister?” asked Noel in shocked surprise. “I always wish I had one—it’s so boring doing things by oneself.”

“Yes, but Valerie’s twenty-two,” said Susan, “and she certainly wouldn’t do anything with me. She says I’m spoilt. Anyway, all she ever does is to grumble about living in the country, because, she says, there aren’t any decent cinemas or shops.”

“I suppose it’s because she’s so much older than you,” said Noel thoughtfully. “I mean, she counts as a grown-up.”

“That’s right,” said Susan. And she went on, “Have you any idea what the time is?” Noel hadn’t, but she went into the cottage to look, and found, to her amazement, that it was a quarter to one. Susan was horrified. She said that she would be hours late for lunch, but she wasn’t going to spoil Beauty’s legs by trotting on the roads for any one, and she hurried off down the lane shouting, “See you to-morrow.”

Thursday was a wet, windy day, and to John Manners, walking up the winding road which led to Folly Court, it seemed that the first breath of autumn was in the air. He thought, regretfully, that the holidays were almost over, and soon he would be back at school. It wasn’t that he minded school; and next term it was football, which would be super, but it was more fun to ride about on Turpin, drive the tractor or help on the farm, than to do lessons, and though it was nice to have a lot of other chaps to fool about with, that didn’t make up for having to tear around at the bidding of a lot of beastly bells instead of doing what you liked. The real trouble about going back to school was that he would only have a fortnight in which to break his pony, and by the Christmas holidays it would have forgotten everything he had taught it. That, thought John, is where the girls are going to have an advantage, for none of them are at boarding-schools, and, though it will be dark in the evenings, they will have the week-ends in which to school their ponies. But whatever happens, he thought, I must beat June Cresswell. It looks as though I shall have to mug up some of this fancy riding, otherwise I can just see her pony doing the change of leg, passes, and collection, while the rest of us wander round with no difference between our collected and extended paces.

By this time John had reached the gates of Folly Court, and he was hailed by shrieks from Noel and Susan, who were approaching from the opposite direction. John waved and waited—secretly he was very glad to see them, for, like most self-conscious people, he hated to arrive by himself.

“Hallo,” said Susan, as they drew closer, “I see you walked over too.”

“Yes,” said John. “I thought it would be hopeless to try to lead an unbroken pony off Turpin.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Susan. “So Noel is going to ride Beauty home, and I hope my pony will follow her.”

They were walking up the drive during this conversation, and suddenly Noel, who was riding Beauty and could see over the hedges, said, “There they are!”

“Where?” asked John and Susan both at once.

Noel pointed. There, sure enough, in a little paddock close to Folly Farm, grazed the six ponies—a grey, a skewbald, two bays, a chestnut, and a black.

“Don’t they look lovely?” said Susan, separated from them by several acres of pasture, but determined to be pleased.

Meanwhile the long, grey rambling Priory, where the Radcliffes lived, had been the scene of a good deal of argument and excitement. The Radcliffes had decided to go to Folly Court in full force, for, in spite of Major Holbrooke’s assurance that the ponies were quiet, they all felt sure that they would have a difficult journey home. They had each prepared themselves for any eventuality, and as they hurried along the quiet country road, Margaret and James in front, riding Pixie and Darkie, and the elder three, who were going to lead the youngsters, walking behind, their pockets bulged with things that might be useful. James had a compass, in case the ponies galloped away into a wood and everyone lost their sense of direction, a long piece of cord to rescue people from chalk quarries, and a box of matches so that they could light a fire as a beacon if they were lost, or to warm them if they had to spend the night out. Margaret had a very large handkerchief to bind up any one—horse or human—who cut his arteries, and some acid drops in case they all fell into a quarry and shouted themselves hoarse. Hilary had oats for the ponies and bars of chocolate for the humans; while Evelyn had enough apples for everyone; and Roger carried the halters and some money to tip farm labourers who caught the ponies if they let them go.

The walk to Folly Court seemed very short. They spent it imitating the other Pony Club members and inventing the things they would say when their ponies were naughty. Evelyn was June Cresswell when she had been bucked off into a puddle; she complained bitterly that she had been made to look a fool, and told Hilary to send for Dr. Radcliffe, as she had swallowed a mouthful of muddy water. Hilary replied that she would never be able to bear the shame of Evelyn looking so scruffy, though she granted her that it wasn’t every girl who could find a puddle to fall into. Margaret was alternately Noel, when she said in a squeaky voice, “Oh, dear! Whatever shall I do? I’m sure I shall never be able to catch her.” And Susan when she whined, “Daddy, Daddy, the horrid pony’s bucked me off. I must have another groom to exercise her.” Roger imitated Richard Morrisson. He told his sisters that they were only girls and couldn’t do anything. James’ thoughts were far away. His secret ambition was to be an explorer, and in his imagination he stood at the helm of his good ship Dauntless and steered her through the coral reefs with unerring judgment.

Jill was very pleased when Richard asked if she would ride over to Folly Court with him and then lead Wendy home off Peter while he walked with the youngster. Generally he wouldn’t let her ride Peter, saying she would spoil his mouth or let him have his own way, and it was very flattering to be thought capable of leading one pony off another when you were “only a girl.”

Mrs. Morrisson annoyed them both by telling Richard that he wasn’t to let Jill be kicked by the unbroken ponies or bolted with by Peter. Jill replied that she could look after herself and Richard said rather rudely that it would be Jill’s own fault if she was kicked, and, if his mother was afraid of Peter bolting, she had better buy Jill a fairy cycle.

Mrs. Morrisson said Richard had been quite impossible since he went to a boarding-school, and Richard said whose fault was that—he hadn’t wanted to go to a beastly boarding-school. Then Mrs. Morrisson said he was thoroughly impertinent, and she would speak to his father about him, and Richard said he didn’t care if she did, and flounced out of the room, slamming the door.

However, by the time they had groomed and saddled their ponies Richard had quite recovered his temper, and they rode to Folly Court in the best of spirits, imagining all sorts of triumphs for his youngster. They arrived to find John, Noel and Susan gazing across the fields at the ponies. They all admired and discussed them for a few minutes, and then John said he thought they ought to go up to the house in case everyone else had arrived.

They found the Radcliffes talking to the Major, who, after everyone had said, “Hallo” asked if they would like to see round the stable while they were waiting for June. Everyone said, “Yes, please,” except Noel, who was casting anxious glances at the rose garden, and he led the way into the stable yard and introduced them to Nothing Venture, Gay Crusader, Harmony, two thoroughbred youngsters called The Merry Widow and Black Magic—and an Arab mare called Southwind. Then he showed them the saddle-room, and the clean, shining tack put a good many members to shame when they thought of the state of theirs. They were in one of the big shady paddocks looking at the broodmares and their foals when they heard the sound of a car, and on going back to the stable yard they found that Mrs. Cresswell and June had arrived, complete with trailer. Mrs. Cresswell apologised for being late, and the Major said that it was quite all right, and led the way across the fields towards the Home Farm. Mrs. Cresswell kept up an unending stream of conversation about June, to whom, she said, the breaking would be a wonderful experience, for, though she hadn’t much more to learn about riding, she had never done anything with young horses, not that she thought it would come amiss to her, as she had always schooled Wonder and kept her up to the mark. Mrs. Cresswell said all this and a good deal more, in what, she thought, was an undertone, but which could be heard quite plainly by the members following behind, all of whom—except June, whose look of superiority never changed—felt inclined to giggle. Major Holbrooke replied with absent-minded um’s and ah’s, which Mrs. Cresswell took to be agreement; but Noel wondered what he really thought, and she felt rather sorry for June, for she knew how embarrassed she would feel if her mother said she hadn’t much more to learn about riding, however good she might be.

The sight of the ponies stopped Mrs. Cresswell’s flow of words. Hearing the Major’s call, they all hurried across the field and began to look in people’s pockets in the most friendly manner. They were all about the same size—between twelve-two and thirteen-two—and four of them were mares, and two, the chestnut and one of the bays, were geldings.

“Oh, aren’t they lovely?” said Susan.

“I want the black one,” said John.

“We must have the skewbald,” said Margaret Radcliffe.

“No, no, the grey,” said Evelyn.

Mrs. Cresswell turned to June and said, in an undertone, “I do hope you don’t get the skewbald—she’s too ‘circusy’ for words.”

“I’m going to give you five minutes to make up your minds,” said the Major; “and then, if more than one person wants any pony, they’ll have to draw lots.” And he sat on the gate and admired the beauties of nature while they decided.

“Oh, we must have the skewbald,” said Margaret.

“For goodness’ sake shut up,” said Evelyn. “It’s not you who’s having a pony, and anyway, I want the grey.”

“ ‘A good horse is never a bad colour!’ ” quoted Hilary, “but personally I rather like the chestnut.”

“Yes, he’s awfully nice,” agreed Roger, “such a glorious golden chestnut, and I like his star.”

“I like the black,” said James. “You could be a highwayman on her.”

“Ugh,” said Evelyn. “I hate blacks! It’s such a gloomy colour and it reminds me of funerals. Anyway, you can be a highwayman on a grey. What about Katerfelto?”

“A black’s better, though,” said James, “because you can’t be seen at night.”

“Well, I don’t want to be a highwayman,” said Evelyn, “and I don’t want the black. I’m going to have the grey.”

“If no one else wants her,” said Roger.

“Mummy,” said June, “don’t you think the grey has the best hocks?”

“Don’t talk so loud,” whispered Mrs. Cresswell, “or all the others will want her too.”

“I don’t know which I want,” said Susan. “They’re all so lovely. Which do you think, Noel?”

“I’ve no eye for a horse,” said Noel drearily. She was feeling very envious. “But I don’t think colour matters much, and you can’t tell what their characters are like until you’ve known them some time. I should just let fate take its course.”

“Have you decided which you want, Richard?” asked John.

“The grey, I think,” said Richard. “But I don’t really mind; they’re all so wizard. Have you settled on the black?”

“Yes, I like her the best,” said John.

“What will you call the grey if you have her?” asked Jill.

“Well, I haven’t got her yet,” said Richard, “but I shall have to think up a really super name. The Major’s horses have all got pretty good ones, though some of them are rather a mouthful.”

Then the Major, tired of the beauties of nature, and feeling rather cold, got off the gate and said time was up, and who wanted which?

“The grey,” shouted June, Richard and Evelyn all at once; while John said, “The black”; and Hilary, “The chestnut.”

“Oh, heavens,” said Major Holbrooke, “one at a time, please—you nearly deafened me. Now who wants the grey—and please don’t shout.”

“Me,” said June, Evelyn and Richard more quietly.

“Well, you’ll have to draw lots, then,” said the Major. “But first of all, what about you other people?”

“Can I have the black?” asked John. As no one else wanted her, he was settled. Hilary asked for and was given the chestnut, and then, as Susan still hadn’t decided which pony she wanted, the Major made three lots, and June drew the longest, so, to Evelyn’s intense disgust, she chose the grey. Then Susan, Richard and Evelyn drew for the three remaining ponies. Richard, who got the longest lot, had the bay gelding, which was the tallest pony; Susan, who got the middling lot, had the bay mare; while Evelyn, who had the shortest lot, had the smallest pony, which was the skewbald. She was very cross, but Margaret was delighted, and whispered to James that they would be able to have a circus.

“Thank goodness, that’s settled,” said the Major. “I only hope everyone knows which pony they’ve got, for I certainly don’t. And now,” he went on, “if you will all come back to the stables, I want to show you a few things about lungeing on one of my youngsters.”

As they walked back across the fields, Major Holbrooke explained about lungeing. He said he expected they had all seen it done, but, for the benefit of any one who hadn’t, it was simply making a horse walk, trot and canter on a long webbing rein fixed to his head-collar and held by the trainer who, by standing more or less in the same place, causes the horse to go round in a continuous circle. Lungeing was, he said, an excellent thing for the young horse, as it balanced and suppled him, thus improving his head-carriage and making him stride out properly, besides teaching him the words of command, which were so important when you first started to ride him.

When they reached the stables they found that Blake had The Merry Widow ready in a head-collar and lunge-rein. The Major led her out to a small paddock on the west side of the house and started to lunge her, first of all at the walk. He pointed out the way in which he held the rein and whip, and said that of course they mustn’t expect their ponies to go as well at first, as The Widow had been broken in six weeks and knew all about it. When he had lunged The Merry Widow at the walk, trot and canter to either hand, Major Holbrooke asked if any one would like a try. “Me,” said everyone but Noel, who was keeping well out of sight.

The Major handed the lunge-rein and whip to Evelyn, who had spoken most loudly. While she had been watching, Evelyn had thought lungeing looked easy, and as she knew she was a very capable person, she had expected to be able to do it straight away, but, to her chagrin, The Merry Widow, who had behaved perfectly with the Major, refused to walk round at all. After she had tried for a few minutes, with very little success, Major Holbrooke pointed out that she was standing absolutely still in the centre and expecting the horse to walk round her, while she should move round with the horse, though on a very much smaller circle and slightly behind her, with the whip out, ready to send her on if she should try to stop or turn, in exactly the same way as one used one’s legs when riding.

When Evelyn got the idea of this she managed the Widow much better, and when she had made her walk and trot round to either hand several times, the Major said it was someone else’s turn, and Richard took the rein. He was quite good, but he would show off and try to crack the whip. Susan, who had the next turn, tangled the lunge-rein round her legs and was nearly pulled over; but apart from this she controlled The Merry Widow well, as did Hilary. When Hilary had had her turn, the Major said The Widow had done enough, and he sent John for Black Magic. She was more difficult to lunge, for not only had she a more excitable temperament, but she had barely been broken in a month. In spite of this, both John and June managed her well. Then, since she didn’t come forward, Major Holbrooke asked Noel if she didn’t want a turn.

“Oh, I should love one,” said Noel, “but I’m not having a pony.”

“That doesn’t make any difference,” said the Major. “Come on.”

So Noel gave Beauty, whom she had been holding, to Susan, murmuring, “I’m sure to do something silly—I’ll probably let her go.”

“What’s that?” asked the Major.

Noel blushed and said, “I was only saying that I’d probably let her go.”

“You are a Uriah Heep, aren’t you?” said the Major, handing her the lunge-rein. Noel felt even more embarrassed. She went scarlet in the face and dropped the whip. Oh, goodness, she thought miserably, why ever did I come?

“What does Uriah Heep mean?” asked Susan of no one in particular.

“Susan!” said Evelyn in shocked tones.

“Gosh!” said John.

“Do you mean to say you don’t read Dickens?” asked Richard in an incredulous voice.

“Oh, it comes from Dickens, does it?” said Susan quite unabashed. “I’ve never read any of his books—they look awfully dull.”

“Don’t I know it,” said John. “I’ve just read Great Expectations for my holiday task.”

“Do you mean to say you don’t like Dickens?” asked Richard.

“I do,” said John. “I think Oliver Twist and David Copperfield are the best, but I’d rather read something by Robert Louis Stevenson or the Scarlet Pimpernel books any day.”

“But you can’t dislike Dickens,” said Richard. “I mean he’s famous—everyone likes him.”

“Of course he can dislike him if he wants to,” said Roger. “What’s the point in pretending to like an author just because he’s famous or other people like him? The other people may be wrong.”

“The Scarlet Pimpernel books are only suitable for people of ten,” said Richard scornfully.

“Well, how old are you?” asked Roger in a pointed manner.

“I don’t agree with you, Richard,” said the Major, joining in. “Certainly they are not well written when compared with Dickens, but they have a spirit of adventure which can be appreciated by a greater mental age than ten, especially in these dull and rather colourless times, and I must confess I find them more exciting and no more ridiculous than the average present-day detective story; though this does not prevent me from enjoying Aristotle in another mood. After all, champagne and caviare at the Ritz do not take the pleasure from bread and cheese and beer at a country inn.”

“But all the same,” said Richard rather sulkily, “I can’t understand any one not liking Dickens.”

“I think that, to most people, the classics are an acquired taste,” said Major Holbrooke. “That’s why they make you read them at school. John will probably enjoy Dickens when he’s older, though I must admit I find a lot of his work infernally dull, while you have already acquired the taste. I expect you read him originally to please your parents, who probably thought it very clever, while John’s thought cricket more important.”

“That’s right,” said John. “Dad often says he doesn’t want me to become a learned guy with long hair and a fancy tie. He says it’s the games that count.”

“I’m afraid I don’t altogether agree with him,” said Major Holbrooke; and then to Noel, who, finding no one was paying the least attention to her, had ceased to worry, and had therefore managed Black Magic quite easily, he said:

“It wasn’t so dreadfully difficult after all, was it?”

“No,” said Noel, dropping the whip and tangling the lunge-rein round her legs. “It was lovely—she’s awfully good.”

“You had better have a turn now, Roger,” said the Major. And then, when Roger had finished, he told James and Margaret Radcliffe, to their annoyance, that they were too small, and, taking the rein, he showed the way to teach a horse to jump, beginning with a pole on the ground and working up to two feet six—the highest Black Magic had learned to jump so far.

Just at the end of the jumping, Mrs. Holbrooke, who had been good naturedly keeping Mrs. Cresswell out of the Major’s way by showing her round the immense aviary in which she, Mrs. Holbrooke, kept her collection of exotic birds, came into the paddock to point out to the Major that it was already half-past twelve, and that most families lunched at one.

“Oh, heavens,” said Major Holbrooke guiltily, “why on earth didn’t someone tell me before? Now I shall have hundreds of irate parents after my blood. Come on, all of you; we’d better catch those ponies. Have you got your halters?”

“Oh, dear!” said Susan. “Noel, we’ve come without one.”

“If you were relying on Noel, I’m not surprised,” said the Major with a laugh. “Didn’t you know she’s anti-gardens?”

Noel felt fearfully embarrassed and again wished she hadn’t come, but Susan only laughed and said she hadn’t far to go home for one. However, the Major said of course he would lend her a halter, and he sent Noel to fetch one, for she knew where they were kept, and he asked Roger to put Black Magic away, as Blake would have gone to lunch. Noel helped Roger to settle Black Magic, and then they ran across the fields, to find that the others had already caught the ponies. They put the halter on Susan’s bay, and then, when everyone had thanked the Major, who said that any one who got into difficulties was to ring him up and that he would arrange another rally before the end of the holidays, and Mrs. Holbrooke, who promised to ring up and reassure Mrs. Manners and Mrs. Morrisson, the only mothers who were likely to worry about their children being late, Noel, Margaret and James mounted and, followed by the six led ponies, they set off for home. When they came to the drive, the Radcliffes took the back way, which led to the Hogshill road, while everyone else, except June, went down the main drive to the Basset-Brampton road. There John had a little difficulty in persuading his black mare to go alone to Lower Basset while all her friends were led off in the opposite direction, but he got her along in the end, though she neighed hopefully long after the others were out of sight.

Mrs. Cresswell and June had great difficulty in getting the grey into the trailer. The Major and Blake, who had come back from his lunch, had to help, and the Major, who was feeling hungry, and therefore rather cross, became very annoyed with Mrs. Cresswell, who would wave her arms and say, “Shoo!” to the pony, which, of course, only upset her the more. At last Major Holbrooke could bear it no longer. He gave Mrs. Cresswell a lecture, and, taking the halter-rope from June, who was trying to pull her pony in, he picked up each of the grey’s fore-feet in turn and put them on the ramp; then, holding out a cow-cake, he walked up in front of her. Finding that the ramp was quite firm and didn’t collapse as she had expected, the grey followed him into the trailer. Mrs. Cresswell thanked the Major effusively, and then he, muttering, “Not at all,” and “Don’t mention it,” hurried into lunch, to find Mrs. Holbrooke also in a bad temper, partly because she was hungry, partly because Mrs. Matthews, the cook, was in a rage as the lunch was overdone, but mainly because she had had to spend the whole morning making conversation to Mrs. Cresswell.

“If only,” she said as she finished her cinder-like cutlet, “that dreadful woman could talk of something else but June and Golden Wonder!”

Meanwhile, as Mrs. Cresswell and June drove home to their lunch, which was to be sausages and mash followed by bread and butter pudding, they discussed the events of the morning.

“Wasn’t it a good thing I got the grey,” said June, “and not the cart-horsy old skewbald or the dull bays and black? I wouldn’t have been seen dead on the skewbald.”

“The grey is certainly the pick of the bunch,” replied Mrs. Cresswell, “and I’m very glad you got her, June, for I hardly think those other children would have done her justice. Of course, the chestnut was a showy little animal.”

“Well, he soon won’t be,” said June. “Hilary Radcliffe is sure to spoil him. Why, she doesn’t even know how to change legs, so what’s the good of her trying to break in a pony?”

“That’s quite true,” said Mrs. Cresswell; “and really,” she went on, “after the exhibition those children made of themselves at the Pony Club rally, I don’t know how the Major can bring himself to entrust them with his cousin’s ponies. I suppose he thinks he can chase round after them all showing them what to do, but in spite of the nasty way he spoke when we were boxing her, he can rest assured that one pony—and probably only one—will be properly trained.”

“Susan,” said Noel as they parted from the Morrissons and turned up the drive to Basset Towers, “I know I shall upset something.”

“That’s all right,” said Susan calmly. “I often do. Mummy makes rather a fuss, and Valerie says my table manners are disgusting, but they won’t be able to say anything to you—you’re a guest.”

“But it’s so awfully embarrassing,” said Noel.

“I don’t see why,” said Susan. “Everybody upsets things sometimes.”

“Not as often as I do,” said Noel. “I hardly ever go out without upsetting something.”

“I say, Noel. What does Uriah Heep really mean?” asked Susan, changing the subject.

“He’s a character in David Copperfield,” said Noel. “He had clammy hands and was very ’umble.”

“ ’Umble?” said Susan. “But why did the Major call you Uriah Heep?”

“Because I thought I would let Black Magic go, I suppose,” said Noel.

“I see,” said Susan, who didn’t.

By this time they had reached the stables, and the bay pony, which had led perfectly all the way, suddenly refused to go any farther. In vain did Susan try to tempt her with apples or pull her along. In vain did Noel take Beauty on ahead. They pushed and pulled and tempted her for about ten minutes, and then, just as they were despairing, Mr. Barington-Brown came rolling up the drive in his Daimler, driven by Cookson, the chauffeur. The pony didn’t take any notice of the car; she just stood, her fore-legs braced out in front of her, and refused to move. Cookson brought the black, shiny and very respectable looking Daimler smoothly to a standstill, and Mr. Barington-Brown jumped out and said in jovial tones:

“ ’Ullo, Susan. Won’t the bucking broncho go?”

“Oh, Daddy, you’re just in time. Do come and help us.”

So Mr. Barington-Brown, who in the days of his youth, long before he became a rich shoe manufacturer, had looked after a pony called Snowball, belonging to his father, a greengrocer, pushed, while Susan tempted the pony and Noel rode ahead on Beauty. Suddenly the bay gave in and walked quietly into the stable. They put her in the box next to Beauty, in which she looked very small and forlorn, for it was the old-fashioned type, with iron bars all round, so that she couldn’t look out or speak to Beauty next door. To Noel she seemed like an unjustly sentenced prisoner, and lines from the ballad of Reading Jail came into her mind.

Susan made sure that there was water and hay in the youngster’s box and a feed for Beauty, and then, when he had finished mopping his brow, Mr. Barington-Brown said that it was half-past one, and that if they didn’t hurry into lunch they’d have mother after them, and led the way through the dark Victorian shrubbery to the house.

Basset Towers was a very ugly house. It had been built by an eccentric shipowner, who had a great deal of money but no taste. Besides being built in a hideous red brick, it was too high for its length, and at each corner there was a pepper-pot turret, which made it look quite absurd.

The Barington-Browns had only lived at Basset for about a year; before that they had had a house in Manchester near Mr. Barington-Brown’s factory. When Susan’s mother, who was rather a snob, decided to live in the country, she had chosen Basset Towers, partly because it was the right size and she thought that the rooms were convenient, and partly because she thought that Basset Towers would be a smart postal address. But then she, like the shipowner, had no taste, though perhaps there was more excuse for her, who had always lived in Manchester, than for the shipowner, who had been a sailor to start with, and had sailed all over the world and seen many lovely buildings in places like Rome, Athens, and Constantinople.

Noel took an instant dislike to Mrs. Barington-Brown, who was tall, gaunt and acid looking, and whose hand, when Noel shook it, was cold and fish-like. Noel thought she looked awfully old—more like Susan’s grandmother than her mother. Then Valerie came in. She, too, was tall and thin; her blonde hair was piled in elaborate curls on top of her head, and she had sticking-out teeth and a discontented expression. Noel shook hands with her, and then Mrs. Barington-Brown told Susan to take “her little friend” to wash, so Susan took Noel upstairs to a very pink bathroom. They washed with pink soap, and afterwards Susan did her hair, which was in two neat, fair plaits, and Noel made a feeble attempt to flatten her unruly black shock. When Susan was ready they cantered down to lunch, which was saddle of mutton, followed by chocolate souffle. Noel was given enormous helpings, far more than she could eat, and, except for offering her more, no one made much conversation. Mr. Barington-Brown told one story—a very dull one—about Snowball, while Mrs. Barington-Brown argued with Valerie as to whether the lounge needed redecorating.

After an even longer pause than usual, when everyone looked at their plates and Noel felt terribly embarrassed, Mrs. Barington-Brown asked in her very refined voice:

“When is your father coming home from Egypt, Noel?”

“Not until next summer,” replied Noel, rather surprised that she knew he was there.

“He’s one of those people who dig up bits of china and mummies and such-like, isn’t he?” asked Mr. Barington-Brown.

“Really, Albert!” said Mrs. Barington-Brown before Noel could reply. “How can you be so ignorant! Professor Kettering is an eminent archæologist, and he’s written several very deep books on the subject. Isn’t that right, Noel?”

“He’s written some books,” said Noel, “but they look rather boring to me.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Barington-Brown with a laugh, “I’m sure no one expects you to bother your little head with such things. I don’t believe Susan ever opens a book except when she’s at school—eh, Susan?”

“Noel’s awfully clever, Daddy,” said Susan, blushing slightly. “She reads Dickens.”

“My word! Does she?” said Mr. Barington-Brown, looking at Noel as though she were some strange creature from another world. “You are taking after your dad, then.”

“Oh, no,” said Noel, feeling more embarrassed than ever. “I’m terribly stupid—I’m hopeless at geometry, and I’m sure I could never learn Greek.”

“Well, we can’t all be good at everything,” said Mr. Barington-Brown. “And, for myself, I can’t say I’ve much faith in all this education. But, there, mother’s keen on it—isn’t she, Susan?”

“Yes, worse luck,” said Susan. “She wants me to stay at school until I’m eighteen. Ugh! Just think of it—five more years.”

“Don’t chatter so much, Susan,” said Mrs. Barington-Brown sharply. “But pass Noel a peach.”

“No, thank you,” said Noel, who had already eaten two and was beginning to feel sick.

“Well, if she’s had sufficient,” went on Mrs. Barington-Brown, “you had better take her up to your playroom, Susan; and if you go over to Brampton, be sure to be back in time to change for tea, as we’ve company.”

Jill had rather an unpleasant journey into Brampton, for though she found she could manage Peter and Wendy easily, she was exasperated by Richard’s remarks on Major Holbrooke’s incredible mentality in liking the Pimpernel books and finding any of Dickens dull. However, not having read any of the works, she was hardly in a position to argue, though, as Richard kindly pointed out, she couldn’t be expected to have read much, for she was only eleven, and a girl at that.

As they rode into the town they noticed that it was busier than usual, and they realised, to their dismay, that it was market day, when the otherwise quiet little town became a mass of traffic, stalls, and people.

“Gosh, that’s torn it,” said Richard. “How on earth are we going to get this brute through the market-place?”

“We can’t go back now,” said Jill. “It’s simply miles round by Friars’ Fenchurch.”

“No, we can’t go right round there,” agreed Richard. “We shall just have to risk it; but I should think that if you ride ahead this animal will follow.”

“All right,” said Jill. “But I do hope Peter doesn’t shy. I know I shall fall off if he does.”

“For goodness’ sake don’t start being feeble,” said Richard disagreeably; “and do hurry up. We’re hours late for lunch already.”

“It’s a good thing Mrs. Holbrooke rang mummy up,” said Jill, “or she’d have been awfully cross, for she said we were to be back by one.”

“She’ll be in a bait, don’t you worry,” said Richard. “But I can’t see what she wants to make such a fuss for; she could easily have asked old Bunting to cut us some sandwiches and then it wouldn’t have mattered what time we got back. Dash it all,” he went on, “I’m in the ‘Schol’ form at school and captain of cricket. She can’t go on treating me as though I were a kid.”

“Do stop criticising mummy,” said Jill. “It must be your fault anyway, for she’s not nearly so cross when you’re away at school.”

“It’s all very well for you,” said Richard. “Girls like staying at home and keeping clean, but boys are different. Except for not being able to ride and having to swot, I’d rather be at school than at home any day. We have some pretty good ‘rags’ there. . . .” And he was still telling Jill about one of the “rags” as they turned into the market-place. When the bay pony saw the crowd of people and the stalls, with their gaily striped awnings, he stopped and gazed with wide, frightened eyes. Richard tried to pull him forward, and Jill rode on ahead, hoping he would follow when he saw the other ponies weren’t afraid. He did, for a few steps, and then the owner of a near-by stall came out of it, flapping the orange and white awning as he did so. This was too much for the bay. With a snort he whirled round and, knocking Richard into the gutter, he galloped back up the road to Basset.

Richard lay in the gutter for a few minutes, wondering whether his arm, which hurt horribly, was broken, and thinking what a sensation he would cause if he went back to school with it in a sling. Then realising where he was, he scrambled to his feet, just as the bay pony, which had been turned by a man on a bicycle, came galloping back. Jill, who had dismounted at the first sign of trouble, let go of Peter and Wendy and, with a shrill shriek, fled to the comparative safety of the chemist’s doorway. Richard stood in the middle of the road, waving his arms and shouting, in a half-hearted attempt to stop the pony. Then when he was almost upon him he, too, took cover in the doorway of the chemist’s shop. The bay pony galloped up the High Street, followed by Wendy, her reins and stirrups flying, and disappeared round the corner by the church. But Peter, being a greedier and more phlegmatic character, didn’t bother to follow them. Instead, he found a vegetable stall, the owner of which had gone to see what the excitement was about, and started to make the most of it.

“Oh, Jill, you are feeble,” said Richard. “Why ever did you let them go?”

“I couldn’t help it,” said Jill tearfully. “Anyway, you let go of the bay first, and now Wendy will be run over.” And she began to sniff.

“For goodness’ sake shut up,” said Richard. “Did you see which way Peter went?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Jill, “and I don’t care either. I know Wendy will be killed or else she’ll slip and break her leg, and then she’ll have to be put to sleep, and it’s all your fault for having one of Major Holbrooke’s beastly ponies.”

Richard’s reply was drowned by furious shouts from the owner of the vegetable stall, who had returned to find a large brown pony eating apples and carrots as fast as he could. Richard guessed it must be Peter who was causing the shouts, so he ran towards them, and found a fat man with a red face waving a walking-stick at Peter and shouting loudly, though in such a very broad Barsetshire accent that Richard could not understand one word of what he was saying—which was perhaps just as well!

Richard ran up to Peter and made a grab at his rein, but Peter, who had found out long before that he could frighten Richard if he wanted to, laid back his ears, bared his teeth and pretended he was going to bite. Richard jumped backwards and, thus encouraged, Peter walked after him. Richard began to run, and, to the joy of the crowd, Peter broke into a trot and chased him quite a way down the street before turning back to have another feed at the vegetable stall. Meanwhile Mr. Charr, the owner of the stall, thinking Peter had gone for good, began to tidy up the vegetables, but he hadn’t done much when Peter came trotting back and, rudely pushing Mr. Charr aside, buried his nose in a box of the best Cox’s Orange Pippins. They were the ones which were kept for show; the maggotty ones which Mr. Charr sold his customers were kept discreetly out of sight. Giving a yell of rage, Mr. Charr started to belabour Peter with his walking-stick, but Peter just turned on him and, being a coward, he too fled down the street, amid the derisive shouts of the even larger crowd which had collected.

It so happened that, as they ate their lunch, Mrs. Cresswell and June had decided to go into Brampton that very afternoon to buy a head-collar and lunge-rein for Grey Dawn, as they had named the grey mare. Mrs. Cresswell told June that she must begin the pony’s training as quickly as possible, for, she said, the other children were such jealous little things that they were sure to make a dead set at June and do all in their power to beat her.

As they drove into Brampton they remarked on the noise, which was unusually loud even for market day.

“I do hope,” said Mrs. Cresswell anxiously, “that there isn’t a fire or anything else that might spread and upset Wonder.”

“Don’t be so silly, Mummy,” said June. “There’d be a glow in the sky.”

“Quite right, dear. I never thought of that,” said Mrs. Cresswell as she brought the car to a standstill in front of the saddler’s. It was a very small shop, with a low timbered roof and, sandwiched as it was between the post office—the only modern building in the town—and the King’s Head Hotel, which was tall, narrow, and of the late Georgian period, it looked absurd. But in spite of its unimposing appearance, Mr. Woodstock’s shop was well known in Barsetshire for its excellent saddlery.

To the Cresswells’ annoyance, Mr. Woodstock wasn’t in his shop. They waited impatiently for a few minutes, June ringing the bell and grumbling, and then, as the laughter and shouting from the market-place attracted their curiosity, they walked round, past the Norman church—for which Brampton was famous—and into the High Street. There they saw Peter chasing Mr. Charr, whose face was redder than ever, up the street for the second time, while Richard stood, in an agony of embarrassment and indecision, with his hands in his pockets, and the crowd shrieked, guffawed, cried or whooped with joy according to age and temperament.

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Cresswell. “It’s that stuck-up Morrisson boy’s pony. Whatever is it doing here? He must have had an accident.”

“Look! There he is,” said June, pointing. “Why ever doesn’t he catch Peter instead of standing?”

“I can’t imagine,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “Come along, June,” she went on, “we’d better catch the pony before there’s an accident.” And she hurried after Peter, which, having dealt with Mr. Charr, was trotting back to the vegetable stall. Richard did stretch out a hand in a feeble attempt to grab the reins as Peter trotted past, but he made a threatening face, so Richard hastily retired to the pavement.

“Well, really,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “I do believe that great boy is frightened of the pony.” And she walked straight up to Peter, which had its nose in the apple box again, and took hold of its reins. Peter started to make a face at her, but then, realising she wasn’t frightened, he stopped and just stood, looking as calm and good-natured as he possibly could, to the amazement of the crowd and Richard’s chagrin.

“Well, here you are, Sonny,” said Mrs. Cresswell kindly. And, holding out the reins, she asked, “Did you take a toss? Are you hurt?”

“No,” said Richard very ungraciously. “That idiot Jill let him go and heaven knows where the others have got to.”

“Gracious!” said June. “You haven’t let Major Holbrooke’s pony go, have you?”

“Yes, I have,” said Richard sulkily, “and I expect he’s been run over by now, but I can’t help it—it’s all Jill’s fault for letting go of Peter and Wendy.” And, mounting, he started to ride off down the street. When Mr. Charr, who had at last dared to come back, caught sight of him, he gave a bellow of rage.

“What d’yer think yer doing?” he yelled in broad Barsetshire, “riding off like that? Yer come back, young man, and pay me my damages. Let yer ’orse eat two bushel of my best apples, would yer, and then ride off without a word? I’ll ’ave the law on yer, I will.”

Richard pulled Peter up, turned in his saddle and, though quaking at heart, said, in the firmest tones he could muster, “It’s your own silly fault. If you hadn’t knocked my pony about I could have caught him easily and then he wouldn’t have done any damage.”

“Blame it on me, would yer?” shouted Mr. Charr, angrier than ever. “Trying to do a poor working man out of ’is ’ard-earned penny—stealing, that’s what it is,” he went on, “and me with a wife and six kids too. Try to take the bread out of their mouths, would yer?”

“More like the beer out o’ yours, Bert,” shouted a voice from the crowd.

Once again Mrs. Cresswell came to the rescue. “Stop making that noise, my man,” she said to Mr. Charr, “or I’ll call a constable. And tell me what damage the pony did.”

“A good two quids’ worth o’ stuff ’es ’ad,” said Mr. Charr quite quietly. The last thing he wanted was a policeman on the scene, as he hadn’t a licence to sell vegetables.

“A good two quids’ worth,” he repeated.

“Now, then, Bert,” shouted the voice from the crowd, “you know them apples was maggotty and the carrots ’ad the fly.”

“Ten shillings would about cover it,” said a young man, who looked like a farmer, stepping out from the crowd.

“Oh, thank you so much,” said Mrs. Cresswell, flashing him one of her bright artificial smiles. “Have you ten shillings on you?” she asked Richard. Odd though it might seem, Richard had. He was one of those people to whom money seems very important. He thought it fearfully impressive to jingle coins in your pocket or to display a few notes when taking a stamp from your wallet, and he invariably carried his entire worldly wealth about on him. As it happened, he still had the ten shillings his father had given him for being top of the History, Geography, English and General Knowledge exams at his school.

“Of course,” he replied with great dignity to Mrs. Cresswell’s question.

“Well, you give it to Bert Charr and have done with it,” advised the young farmer.

“Ten shillings?” said Mr. Charr in a voice which was meant to be tragic. “Wot, ten shillings for all them lovely apples? There ain’t no justice for a working man. All them lovely apples—”

“They was maggotty, Bert,” interrupted the voice from the crowd, and everyone laughed.

“Come on, now, Bert, you take that ten bob or I’ll get a copper to take particulars,” said the young farmer.

“All right, all right, I’ll take it,” said Bert Charr, “though it do go against the grain to be trampled on by a young toff like ’im.” And, snatching the note out of Richard’s hand, he walked away, still muttering about the injustice. Richard turned and, without thanking either Mrs. Cresswell or the young farmer, rode off at a brisk trot.

“There’s gratitude for you,” muttered Mrs. Cresswell to herself. Aloud she said, “Come along, June; I should think Mr. Woodstock must be back in his shop by now.”

“Mummy,” said June, “what did he mean about being trampled on by Richard. He wasn’t, was he?”

“No, dear,” replied Mrs. Cresswell. “It was just a form of speech, and a very common one at that. But never mind that, dear. Let’s think about the tackle we have to buy.”

“I expect all the others will have to use clothes-lines for lunge-reins,” said June.

“Well, I dare say they’re used to improvising,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “Not everyone is as lucky as you, dear; but I’m sure they’ll all feel very envious when they see how well equipped you are.”

“Yes,” agreed June. “But you wait until they see Grey Dawn doing the flying change. They’ll be simply green with envy, and they won’t be able to say that it’s Wonder who does everything either.”

“No, credit will have to be given where it’s due for a change,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “though I dare say they’ll do their best to think up some excuse.”

“I wonder what the others will call their ponies,” said June. “I bet none of them will think of such smart names as Grey Dawn.”

Richard had ridden for at least a mile down the road to the Hatch-gate—the direction in which the ponies had gone—before he realised that he hadn’t seen Jill since the beginning of the unpleasantness with Mr. Charr.

Oh, gosh, he thought. Where can she have got to? She really is tiresome. Mummy will be in no end of a bait if she’s been kidnapped or something. But after a little more thought he decided that either she had gone home to lunch or else, which was more likely, she had followed the ponies and he would soon catch up with her. So he trotted on, gazing anxiously into the fields stretching away on either side of the road, and wondering what he would say to Major Holbrooke if the pony fell and broke his knees. Soon he began to feel hungry; then his eyes started to ache and his arm throbbed painfully. Then Peter said he couldn’t trot any farther. How Richard wished he had gone home by Friars’ Fenchurch. By now, he thought, looking at his watch, which said ten minutes past two, I should be eating my lunch instead of chasing these wretched animals round the countryside feeling ravenous, and I should still have my ten shillings for a chemistry set like Langton-Leghorn major’s. At the memory of Peter gobbling ten shillings’ worth of apples he said, “Come on, you lazy old brute,” and gave him three vicious kicks for an aid to trot on.

Richard rode on and on. There was still no sign of Jill, and he began to feel anxious, for, even if she had run, he didn’t see how she could possibly have got so far in the short start she had of him. When he reached the little group of cottages which clustered round the cross-roads at the foot of the hill, Richard decided that he would go no farther. He thought of asking an old man digging his garden or a young woman pushing a pram whether they had seen two ponies pass that way, but on second thoughts he felt they might think him silly or wonder how he came to let them go. So telling himself firmly that they hadn’t come so far, he turned the all-too-willing Peter and trotted briskly back towards Brampton.

Jill had followed the ponies about two miles up the road to the Hatch-gate when, giving way to hunger and despair, she sat down on a convenient stile and burst into tears. She cried for some time: thinking how beastly the ponies were not to come to her when she called them, how unkind Richard was to stay arguing with horrid fat men in the market instead of helping her, and how selfish all the people were who had seen but not caught the ponies. When she couldn’t think of any more people who had been unkind to her, Jill stopped crying and began to dry her eyes and sniff. She was just thinking of going home to lunch when, to her delight, a car pulled up and a voice asked, “What’s the matter, my dear? Have you lost your way?” Looking up, Jill recognised the Vicar of Brampton, and, making no attempt to disguise the fact that she had been crying, she said, “No, it’s the ponies—they’re loose, and I know Wendy will be run over.” And she began to cry again.

“Don’t cry, my dear,” said the Vicar kindly. “I expect they’ll turn up. Whereabouts did you lose them?”

“They escaped in Brampton,” said Jill, “and they galloped up this road, but I don’t know where Richard is, and I’m so hungry and my legs ache.” And, filled with self-pity, she cried louder than ever.

“Oh, my word!” said the Vicar, trying to be jolly. “You have got yourself in a pickle, but I expect your big brother has caught the naughty chaps by now; so jump into my car and I’ll drive you home.”

So though she knew perfectly well that Richard couldn’t possibly have caught the ponies, Jill told herself that the Vicar was right, and jumping gaily into the car, she imagined Richard already eating his belated lunch and the ponies safely back in the paddock. But when, after a detour by Sandy Lane, where the Vicar had to deliver some books, Jill rushed into the house—without thanking him for the lift—she was disappointed; neither Richard nor the ponies had returned home. Mrs. Morrisson was caught by the Vicar and questioned as to why her children never went to church. This made her crosser than ever, and all the time Jill ate her mince and cabbage, which was lukewarm and very nasty, Mrs. Morrisson lectured her on how tiresome and inconsiderate both she and Richard were.

It was at about the same time as Richard turned back from the Hatch-gate and Mrs. Morrisson was lecturing Jill, that Noel and Susan—Noel on Beauty—were walking up the track to Russet Cottage.

“You know, Noel,” said Susan as, turning the corner, they came in sight of the low, whitewashed thatched cottage, “I like your cottage much better than our house. It’s awfully like one on a Christmas card or calendar.”

“It’s not bad,” said Noel; “but, as daddy says, it’s a bit God-wottery.”

“God what?” asked Susan, rather shocked.

“You know,” said Noel. “ ‘A garden is a lovesome thing God wot!’ ”

“Oh, you mean the poem,” said Susan. “I know. Auntie Hilda sent a lovely poker-work thing saying that last Christmas, but the cottage at the top wasn’t half as pretty as yours.”

“Ugh!” said Noel.

“What?” asked Susan.

“Poker-work things,” replied Noel.

“Don’t you like them?” asked Susan.

“Ugh—no,” said Noel firmly. “I think they’re revolting, especially the kind that tell you to hurry in your bath.”

“Auntie Hilda’s got one of those,” said Susan. “But of course she’s only got one bathroom, so you have to be quick. At home there’s three, so you can be as long as you like; but in our house in Manchester we only had one.”

“A beastly poker-work notice wouldn’t make me hurry,” said Noel. “I should be slow on purpose to annoy it. Anyway, if people want you to hurry they can always shout, as mummy does when I read in my bath.”

“Goodness!” said Susan. “Fancy reading in the bath!”

“Well, if you’ve got an interesting book you can’t very well go to bed without finishing it,” said Noel.

“I can,” said Susan; “but perhaps the books I read aren’t very interesting,” she added humbly.

“What sort of books do you read?” asked Noel.

“I don’t know,” said Susan. “All sorts. I can never remember the names—except Black Beauty. I liked that.”

“Would you like me to lend you some?” asked Noel as she dismounted at the cottage gate.

“Yes, please. That would be lovely,” said Susan politely, for she didn’t really think so. “But don’t be long, for I’ve got to be back in time for tea, worse luck!”

“O.K.,” said Noel, giving her the reins and dashing into the cottage, to reappear a moment later with three of her favourite pony books. “Do you think you can carry them all right on Beauty?” she asked.

“Yes, easily,” replied Susan. “She’s not at all difficult to ride with one hand.”

Then, when each had thanked the other, Susan rode away down the lane and Noel wandered into the cottage. She found no sign of her mother or Simple Simon, so, deciding they must have gone to Brampton to do some shopping, she helped herself to a handful of chocolate biscuits and set off across the fields to meet them.

Noel walked along, munching biscuits and thinking how awful it would be to be Susan and have such a beastly mother and sister. Mr. Barington-Brown was, she decided, quite nice, for though he thought it queer to read, and told such dull stories, he was obviously a kind and indulgent father, and probably bought Susan everything she wanted. But, thought Noel, I’d rather be me with no ponies than Susan with all the ponies in the world. As she climbed the steep hill where the mushrooms grew she thought of Susan’s suggestion that when her youngster was educated enough to go out for rides Noel should accompany her on Beauty. She was especially pleased at this idea, for now that Miss Lamb had decided to settle in Ireland, Noel didn’t suppose she would even have Topsy to ride, and she felt very sad; for Topsy, though tiresome, was vastly better than no pony at all. What, thought Noel, does schooling matter as long as it’s a pony? It was at this point that her reflections were interrupted by a shrill neigh. Curious as to what pony it could be—she knew Farmer Trent kept only cart-horses—Noel quickened her pace and on reaching the top of the hill she was amazed to see Wendy grazing in her saddle and bridle, with Richard’s bay youngster beside her.

Gosh, thought Noel, whatever shall I do? And she anxiously scanned the horizon for the Morrissons; but from Greater Roebuck Farm, tiny and toylike in the distance, to where Brampton’s lazy-rising smoke was being chivvied by the restless wind, there was no sign of life. An unhelpful stillness lay over the sodden, colourless fields, broken only by the sound of the wind in the wet falling leaves and the rooks cawing in some far-away elms.

Oh, dear, thought Noel, I’m sure I’ll never be able to catch them. I suppose I’d better fetch the Morrissons. Then, quite suddenly, she thought of Major Holbrooke. She heard him say, in a slightly reproachful voice, “You are a Uriah Heep, aren’t you?” No, she thought angrily, I’m not. Why should I always be likened to a beastly man with clammy hands who never did anything? I’m going to win the open jumping at Olympia on a grey mare with a Roman nose, called Wisdom. And giving her jodhs—which were slipping down again—a determined hitch, Noel walked up to Wendy and offered her the last of the chocolate biscuits. To her surprise and delight, Wendy, tired after her long gallop, took it gladly, and allowed herself to be caught with no trouble at all. Then Noel stood for a few moments undecided as to which way to go. She knew where the Morrissons’ house was, as she had ridden past it with Miss Lamb, but she wasn’t sure whether to risk the bay pony following loose along the roads and go the short way—across the fields to the Hatch-gate and then by Sandy Lane—or to go home and find a piece of cord to make a halter and then to Orchard Cottage by Russet Lane and the outskirts of Brampton. In the end she put safety first, and, mounting Wendy—she thought she might as well ride while she had the chance—she rode down the hill and back to Russet Cottage, with the bay pony following a little distance behind. Leaving Wendy tied to the gate, Noel rushed indoors and searched wildly for some cord or string. Of course, there was none to be found, but just as she was despairing, she discovered an old skipping-rope; she hacked the handles off with her knife, and then, stuffing her pockets with apples, she hurried out to see the last of the hollyhocks—it was her mother’s favourite, a peach-coloured one—disappearing into Wendy’s mouth.

Oh, gosh, thought Noel, mummy will be cross! But still, she consoled herself, they were nearly over, and I should think it’s much nicer, even for flowers, to be cut off in the midst of their heyday than to linger on, rotting and uncared for, and finally die a sordid death on the rubbish heap or a martyred one on a bonfire.

Anyway, she told herself firmly, one can’t stop to bother about hollyhocks when Jill may be lying unconscious in a ditch. She caught the bay with an apple and made a rough halter for him. Then she untied Wendy, mounted, and rode off down the lane.

Wendy was very lazy; she dawdled along as slowly as she could, and occasionally she suggested stopping to graze. But slowly though Wendy walked, the bay pony, which was feeling tired too, would not keep up. The farther they went the more he lagged, and long before they were half-way to Orchard Cottage Noel’s arm ached horribly. Once she thought of turning back, but then she thought of June and the Radcliffes. She knew they wouldn’t even have considered it for a moment. You are feeble, she told herself. How you can think you’re ever going to be good enough to ride at Olympia I don’t know. And, setting her teeth, she rode grimly on.

The early dusk of late September was falling as Noel rode up the drive to Orchard Cottage—which wasn’t a cottage at all, but a fairly large modern house built by the Morrissons’ father, who was a rising architect. There was no one about, and no one rushed out at the sound of hoofs scrunching on the gravel. Noel began to wonder what she would do if everyone was out searching for the ponies or sitting round Jill’s sick-bed in Brampton Cottage Hospital. But then she heard the strains of a wireless, so she dismounted and, leading the ponies up to the front door, pressed the bell. After a few minutes, during which Noel was filled with consternation lest she had come to the wrong house, the door was opened by a smart parlourmaid, who, on hearing that Noel had brought the ponies, said she would fetch the children. She bustled away, and Noel heard her call, “Master Richard. Miss Jill.”

The strains of the wireless stopped, and Richard’s voice asked, rather rudely, “What’s up now, Nancy? It’s not supper-time yet.”

“There’s a young lady at the door with the ponies,” answered Nancy.

“Jill—the ponies,” shouted Richard, and they both came tearing downstairs.

“Oh, hallo!” said Richard in surprise on seeing Noel. “Where did you find them?”

“Darling Wendy,” said Jill, throwing her arms round Wendy’s neck. “Are you all right?”

Mrs. Morrisson was sitting in her modern drawing-room, which looked like a picture of the ideal room in Homes and Gardens, wondering whether she would be able to afford both Nancy and Mrs. Bunting, the cook, now that Richard was leaving Ridgeside and going to an expensive public school, but hearing the noise from the hall, she came out to see what it was about, and Noel had to explain, all over again, exactly where she had found the ponies.

“I think you were simply wonderful to catch them and bring them all the way over here alone,” said Mrs. Morrisson. “We can’t thank you enough.” And to Jill and Richard, “Can we, darlings?”

“No,” said Richard, scowling.

“The poor darlings were worried to death,” went on Mrs. Morrisson. “They searched high and low all afternoon, and when they came home they were simply exhausted. But I said the ponies would be all right. Dear little Wendy is quite capable of looking after number one, that’s what I told Jilly, but she wouldn’t believe me—would you, darling?” And without giving Jill time to reply, she continued, “But mummies nearly always are right, you know, though their children never believe them.”

Neither Richard nor Jill said anything, and Noel, feeling very embarrassed, laughed awkwardly. Then Mrs. Morrisson said, “Well, come along, darlings. Pop them out in the paddock. I expect dear old Peter will be glad to have his pals home again. And now, Noel, what about you? Can I offer you a slice of cake or a glass of milk?”

“I should love some cake, if it’s not an awful nuisance,” said Noel, “but no milk, thank you.” So while Jill and Richard led the ponies away, Noel followed Mrs. Morrisson into the drawing-room and waited while she rang the bell for Nancy and told her to bring some cake. To Noel the room looked very bare and empty. It was unadorned with the years’ collection of objects, such as she and her parents had had so much difficulty to find room for in Russet Cottage. There, weapons from Professor Kettering’s collection hung on all the walls, while Egyptian curios and Noel’s godfather’s sculpture sat cheek by jowl with tin horses, china dogs, and gambolling foals. But here one picture of nameless blue flowers, one vase of autumn leaves and berries, and a white plaster cast of a shepherd boy playing a flute, were all there was to give character to the ideal room. The few books were held neatly in place by book-ends, and Noel imagined Mrs. Morrisson’s start of horror if she were to see the books at Russet Cottage, which, having overflowed the shelves and cupboards, were piled in corners and on top of the larder meat-safe. Mrs. Morrisson made bright conversation about schools and ponies while Nancy fetched the cake, and the more effusive she became the more tongue-tied Noel felt. When at last the cake—which was chocolate and very good—did come, Noel gobbled it quickly and then said she must go, for it was getting darker every moment. She thanked Mrs. Morrisson, who told her all over again how wonderful she had been, and then she set off for home at a brisk run.

It was not such a long way home, for Noel was able to go by the footpath, which was a short cut; you couldn’t ride that way, as there were several stiles, but it was much nicer and much quicker than going round by the road. It was a lovely night, warm and windy, and the pale moon which lighted Noel’s way was languidly casting grotesque shadows across the fields and making the most ordinary and everyday things secret and silver. But all the beauties of nature could not prevent Noel’s legs from aching, and she did wish that Mrs. Morrisson had offered to drive her home. At last she reached the cottage and, opening the door, she stood blinking after the darkness. Mrs. Kettering, wearing a gay Hungarian peasant apron, was frying bacon and eggs. Simple Simon’s golden coat shone brightly in the circle of lamplight. “Hallo,” said Noel. “Did you wonder where I was? I’m awfully sorry about the hollyhocks. . . .”

Chapter IV

IT WAS ON the following Wednesday that Major Holbrooke, having once again summoned all the horse-breakers to Folly Court, gave another lecture and demonstration—this time on the second stage in breaking, that of backing the young horse, and teaching him the elementary aids.

Beforehand, Noel hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry that she was unable to go—she was in bed with a very bad cold—but afterwards, when Susan had told her all she could remember, which was not a lot, Noel thought it sounded so interesting that she was very disappointed not to have been there.

The Major had asked everyone a great many questions about the behaviour of his or her pony and what it had been named. June’s, which, as you know, was called Grey Dawn, had apparently learned a great deal. She could walk, trot and canter on the lunge-rein; she could be groomed, have her feet picked out and wear a saddle and snaffle bridle. The Major had laid great emphasis on the fact that none of the ponies were to wear anything but a snaffle bit, preferably a rubber one, at his earlier lecture. He said he hoped June hadn’t hurried Grey Dawn in her lungeing, but June and Mrs. Cresswell, who had come too, both assured him that she hadn’t; they said that Dawn lunged perfectly, and was not at all hotted-up or excitable. Some of the other children were rather downcast by this long list of Grey Dawn’s accomplishments. John wondered whether June would beat them all again; it looked like it, he thought, for his pony certainly couldn’t canter on the lunge-rein yet.

Then the Radcliffes had told how their ponies, which they named, after a good deal of argument, Rocket and Romany, were both behaving quite well. Evelyn’s, which was Romany, could canter on the lunge-rein, but would not let her hind-feet be picked up, and though Evelyn didn’t mention this, she cow-kicked when she was groomed or girthed up, while Rocket, though not so far on with his lungeing, would let you do anything with him in the stable, and Hilary had already lain across his back on her tummy without any objection on his part. Major Holbrooke seemed to think Rocket a promising pupil when he heard this, which surprised Evelyn, for though she hadn’t said anything to Hilary, she privately thought him much too quiet and lazy, and while Romany had learned to canter after her second lesson, Rocket still couldn’t after his sixth.

Richard, who, after a terrible row with his mother, who wanted him to call his pony Tinker Bell so that he would match with Peter and Wendy, had named the bay Red Rufus, in a fit of rashness brought about by a foolish desire not to sound “small” in front of June Cresswell, gave Red Rufus an untruthfully good report. He said that he could walk, trot and canter on the lunge-rein, but he did not mention that he usually escaped at least twice in a lesson and galloped about the field. He said that Rufus could wear a saddle and bridle, but he did not add that it sometimes took half an hour to put the bridle on.

Then John explained that he hadn’t settled on a name for his pony yet. He had thought of Black Bess, Jackdaw, Nightmare, and Midnight, but he didn’t really think that any of them suited her. So, for the moment, he just called her Blackie.

The three elder Radcliffes gave superior smiles and made meaning faces at each other when they heard this, for they heartily despised such childish names, and though two of their ponies were called Darkie and Pixie, it was because they had christened them many years ago: Darkie when Roger was six and the twins four, and Pixie two years later. Now they were older they regretted their choice, but they agreed that you couldn’t change a pony’s name after eight years just because your tastes had altered. Lately, they felt, the honour of the stable had been fully restored by the sophisticated names of Northwind, Rocket, and Romany. But, as Evelyn said afterwards, John could not be excused by youth, for he was jolly nearly fourteen, and Roger added scornfully that he was probably suffering from arrested development.

Susan was the last person to give her account. She said that Sunset, as she had named the bay mare, was very quiet to lead about, but would not lunge to the right without a struggle, and, though quiet to groom, was very naughty to saddle.

Major Holbrooke explained that probably Sunset was better balanced to one side—horses often were—and, naturally, she preferred going round the way that was easiest; but, he went on, the only cure was to make her equally well balanced on the right side, and this was best done by lungeing her twice as much to this side as to the other. If Susan gave into her now, he could assure her that she would have exactly the same trouble all over again when it came to circling and leading off at the canter on a special leg, but if she found she couldn’t make the pony lunge to the right at all, she was to give him a ring and he would come over and help her.

As for the saddling, the Major felt pretty certain that either Susan had put the saddle on with a bang or else she had pinched Sunset with the girth; unless, of course, the saddle didn’t fit or the pony had girth-galls. Susan said she had looked very carefully, and she was sure that Sunset hadn’t any girth-galls; and, as the saddle, which her father had bought specially, fitted perfectly, she thought it must be her bad saddling. Major Holbrooke told Susan to be very careful in future, and then, when Sunset found she wasn’t going to be hurt, she would give up making a fuss. He went on to give them all a great deal of good advice, and, among other things, he suggested that those who had the misfortune to go to boarding schools should ask a parent, brother or sister to pay their ponies an occasional visit, and perhaps even put a halter on and lead them about during the term. Then, when he had reminded them once again that any one who got into difficulties was to ring him up, they all went into the house for lemonade and cake.

To her intense disgust, Mrs. Holbrooke, who had been lurking in the flamingo’s cage all morning to avoid meeting Mrs. Cresswell, was cornered by her in the hall, and had to listen to a very long story about June’s perseverance in teaching Grey Dawn to canter on the lunge-rein. Actually she didn’t listen, she just said, “Oh, yes?” and “Really?” at intervals, and at the end she said, “Well, you never can tell, can you?” Luckily Mrs. Cresswell’s attention had also wandered; she was thinking how much better dressed June looked than any of the other children, so she didn’t notice Mrs. Holbrooke’s absentminded and rather incongruous remarks.

When everyone had gone and the Holbrookes were drinking a before-lunch glass of sherry, Mrs. Holbrooke asked the Major if he thought the children were getting on all right.

“I think so,” replied Major Holbrooke thoughtfully. “The Barington-Brown child was the only one which seemed to have had any trouble so far. Her pony is evidently a bit one-sided, and it looks as though she’s pinched her with the girth, but, apart from her, they all seem to be doing pretty well.”

“Mrs. Cresswell seemed pleased with the grey’s progress,” said Mrs. Holbrooke.

“Well, actually,” said the Major, “I’m afraid they may be taking her a bit too fast, but they insisted she’s going well and never becomes upset or excited.”

“I shouldn’t worry,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. “I expect Mrs. Cresswell was laying it on a bit thick. You know what she is: June must always be one better than the others.”

“It’s a most tiresome complex,” said Major Holbrooke, “and so bad for the child, but I suppose it’s an excess of maternal instinct. What that woman needs is six children; then she wouldn’t have time to make such a fuss about one.”

“What strikes me as so odd,” said Mrs. Holbrooke, “is that she has to boast when June is so obviously a much better rider than any of the others. I mean, people generally boast to bolster themselves up, because at heart they feel inferior, but it can’t be that with Mrs. Cresswell.”

“Is June such a much better rider?” asked the Major.

“Oh, yes, George,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. “However much you dislike Mrs. Cresswell, you’ve got to give the kid her due, and it’s obvious, even to a layman like myself, that she’s in quite a different class to the others.”

“Ah, well, we shall see,” said Major Holbrooke, smiling in rather an irritating way he had when he wasn’t going to argue.

“Mummy,” said June on the way home from Folly Court, “I’m going to back Grey Dawn this afternoon.”

“Are you sure she’s ready for it?” asked Mrs. Cresswell. “Major Holbrooke seemed to think we were taking her too fast.”

“That’s only because he doesn’t want me to get ahead of the others,” said June. “I expect he’s afraid that he’ll have to give me special instructions on how to teach ponies the flying change while he’s still trying to drum the turn on the forehand into them—if they ever get as far.”

“Yes, perhaps that’s it,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “though it hardly seems fair to hold you back just because the rest are dolts. Of course, I think he’s made a mistake. How can that spoilt Barington-Brown child or those two hopeless boys turn out a properly broken pony? Now, if I had been the Major,” she went on, “I should have asked you to help me with the lot, and then I should have known that the job would be done properly. But there it is—there’s such a lot of jealousy and spite about, that those who can do anything are never given the credit for it.”

They drove on in silence for a few minutes, and then Mrs. Cresswell said, “I noticed that you got plenty of black looks to-day when you were telling the Major just what Grey Dawn can do.”

“Yes,” said June. “They all looked pretty small, didn’t they? Especially Susan—fancy admitting that you can’t make a pony lunge to one side.”

“Dreadful,” agreed Mrs. Cresswell. “So humiliating. I should die of shame if you had to; but that’s not likely to happen, thank goodness.”

The backing of Grey Dawn was very successful. Following the Major’s instructions, June began by putting her foot in the stirrup as if to mount, and increasing her weight on it each time. Then she lay on her tummy on Grey Dawn’s back, and finally as, like all properly brought up ponies, she made no fuss, June mounted. Except for a slight stiffening of her back, under the unaccustomed weight, Grey Dawn did nothing, and after she had been given several handfuls of oats by Mrs. Cresswell, who was holding her, she relaxed and allowed herself to be led a few steps round the box. This, Major Holbrooke had told them, was the most they should do at the first lesson; so June dismounted, and when they had given Dawn some more oats they hurried jubilantly into tea.

At Hogshill Priory all was not going so smoothly. Roger and James had gone for a ride, but Margaret had said she would stay at home and help Hilary and Evelyn back their ponies. They began by lungeing, and Hilary asked Rocket to canter for the first time. He cantered very calmly and on a loose lunge-rein, which caused Evelyn to remark to Margaret that she did wish Hilary would wake him up, for he looked like a worn-out hireling and was a disgrace to the stable. Romany certainly didn’t need waking up; in fact, it was impossible to make her walk on the lunge-rein until she had cantered round for some time, and was so out of breath that she couldn’t do anything else. When Hilary pointed this out, Evelyn said happily that Romany had a hotter temperament than lazy old Rocket, and since she could ride stubborn old Pixie if she wanted to use her legs, it was a jolly good thing. Hilary was furious. She said that Evelyn was being perfectly beastly about Pixie, and that if she had paid the slightest attention to Major Holbrooke she would have heard him say that you should use your legs for turning, pulling up, and back-reining, not to mention collection.

“Gosh,” said Evelyn, “you didn’t take in all that rot, did you? That’s only for training show horses. I don’t want Romany to be one of those silly ponies that have to be told what to do with their legs and are always falling flat in the hunting-field.”

“I can’t say I’ve seen many of Major Holbrooke’s horses fall flat out hunting,” said Hilary shortly.

“Old Georgie Holbrooke is different,” said Evelyn. “He’s gifted; he’s quite exceptional. You’re not so jolly conceited as to think you’ll ever be able to ride like him, are you? Good hands are born, not made, remember, and you’re just as mutton-fisted as the rest of us.”

“If you think I intend to go on riding as badly as I do now all my life, you’re mistaken,” said Hilary with dignity. “I shall certainly do all I can to improve.” And she marched out of the field leading Rocket.

“Gosh,” said Evelyn to Margaret, “she is getting touchy. She seems to fly off at the least little thing nowadays. It’s queer, for she never used to be like that.”

“I expect it was because you said Rocket was lazy,” said Margaret.

“Well, so he is,” said Evelyn, “and if Hilary thinks I’m going to say he’s wonderful, when I don’t think so, she’s mistaken. I don’t believe in saying all sorts of rot I don’t think just so as not to hurt people’s feelings—it’s their own fault if they’re hurt, for having such feeble feelings.”

For a while she lunged Romany in silence. Then she said, “I say, Marga, do you think you could hold Romany while I back her? It’s no good me asking Hilary if she’s got the sulks.”

Margaret was delighted. She said of course she could hold her; she was jolly nearly as strong as Hilary. So they led Romany into one of the loose-boxes, and Margaret took her head while Evelyn put her weight in the stirrup several times and then mounted.

“Hurrah,” shouted Margaret, frightening Romany, who threw her head up and hit Evelyn a blow on the nose. “You’ve done it!”

“For goodness’ sake shut up,” said Evelyn. “Can’t you see you’re frightening her?”

“Whatever does she want to be so jolly nervous for?” asked Margaret impatiently.

“Perhaps Georgie Holbrooke’s cousin was beastly and chased her with whips,” suggested Evelyn. “Poor old lady,” she went on. “Give her some more oats, Marga.” And when Margaret had given her another handful, “Now lead her round the box.”

At first Romany was very nervous, and, as Margaret found her hard to control, they went round in rushes and jerks, but she soon became quiet to all outward appearances, though an experienced horseman would have known her rigid back and tense muscles for a “go-slow” signal. Unfortunately, Evelyn was not an experienced horseman, nor did she remember the advice of one who was. Common sense and Major Holbrooke’s words were scattered to the winds. “Marga,” she asked, “do you think you could hold her if we went outside?”

“Yes, easily,” said Margaret. “She’s awfully quiet now, and I’m sure no one—not even June—has got on half as fast as this.”

Thus encouraged, Evelyn said, “Come on, then; open the door, but for goodness’ sake don’t let her go.”

Margaret led Romany out across the gravel yard to the little paddock at the back of the house. All went well until they passed the corner by the back door for the second time; then some tea towels which Mrs. Hunt—the cook—had hung out to dry, flapped idly in the breeze. Romany, already keyed up to breaking point, was terrified. She leaped forward with a snort, and Margaret and Evelyn, who had been chattering gaily about the surprise they would give Hilary, were taken by surprise themselves. The head-collar rope was jerked out of Margaret’s hand, and Evelyn shot forward in the saddle and clutched at Romany’s mane, frightening her still more. She bucked, and Evelyn flew through the air to land on the muddy ground with a smack. “Oh, you are feeble,” she said to Margaret as she scrambled to her feet. “Why on earth did you let her go?”

“I couldn’t help it,” said Margaret. “It all happened so suddenly. Anyway, it wasn’t a very big buck, so I don’t know why you came off.”

“Well, if I hadn’t she would only have gone on until I did,” said Evelyn disagreeably. “For goodness’ sake help catch her,” she went on, “instead of standing there with your mouth open.”

Romany allowed herself to be caught, but, when Evelyn tried to remount, she twirled round and round, and in spite of all Evelyn’s instructions Margaret was unable to hold her still. In the end they had to take her back to the loose-box, and even there it was some time before Evelyn managed to scramble on. When she was in the saddle Margaret gave Romany some more oats, and then, as they heard the sound of Northwind and Darkie returning from their ride, they decided it was time to stop.

While they unsaddled Romany, Evelyn said, “Mind you don’t say anything about riding in the paddock or me falling off to any one, Marga, or there’s sure to be a fuss.”

“Not even to the others?” asked Margaret.

“No, not to any one,” said Evelyn, “or I shan’t let you help again.”

Later, at tea, when Hilary, who had quite recovered from her outburst, asked how Romany had behaved, Evelyn replied, “Fine, thank you,” and asked Roger to pass the cake.

After tea Hilary, with Roger’s help, backed Rocket. He was very quiet, and they were able to lead him a few steps round the box without mishap.

Two days after the second rally, John Manners was sitting on his garden gate in the depths of despair. He had to go back to school the following week, and, for lack of an assistant, he still hadn’t ridden his pony. Once more he wracked his brain for someone to help him. He didn’t want his father to, for Colonel Manners was inclined to take charge of anything he entered into and always made you do it his way, and John, though he hadn’t actually admitted it to himself, was beginning to have a sneaking feeling at the back of his mind that perhaps Major Holbrooke was right when he said some of dad’s ways were old fashioned. He knew his father’s farm hands would say they were too busy, whether they were or not, and he was far too independent to consider asking any of the other Pony Club members.

There’s no one, thought John, no one at all. That beastly June Cresswell will beat me again, and he fell to kicking the gate savagely with his heels.

Mrs. Manners was weeding the rockery. She knew John was in a bad temper, and at intervals she cast anxious glances at him and wondered whether she dare ask him what was the matter. At last she could bear his scowling face and the drumming of his heels on the gate no longer. She stood upright with a grunt—her back ached from stooping—took off her gardening gloves, and pushed back a few wisps of her greying brown hair, which had escaped from beneath her shady hat. What a pity it is, she thought, that in youth one is always bothering about small things—what one wears, what people think of one, and when, as middle age draws near and one develops a sense of proportion, one is too old to enjoy life to the full.

“John,” she asked, “how is little Blackie getting on?”

“Not at all,” said John in a cross voice, kicking the gate harder than ever.

“Why, what’s the matter with her?” asked Mrs. Manners.

“Nothing’s the matter with her,” said John. “But how’s a person to break a pony with no one to help them?”

“Couldn’t dad help you?” suggested Mrs. Manners.

“No, thanks. I don’t want to be organised,” said John shortly.

“Oh, John, you mustn’t speak of your father like that,” said Mrs. Manners reproachfully. She bent down and absently pulled a sow thistle from the gravel path. Then she asked, “What has the assistant to do? Would I be any help?”

“You don’t mean you’d help, do you, Mum?” asked John in surprise. Perhaps you will think it odd that John had never thought of asking his mother to help him, but he had inherited from his father, who had spent the greater portion of his life in India, a Kipling contempt of “mem-sahibs,” as Colonel Manners always called women. They were helpless, hysterical creatures, pleasantly ornamental and sympathetic, but quite unsuitable for any work beyond light household duties and, possibly, a little gardening.

“Would you really help me, Mum?” John asked again as he jumped down from the gate.

“Of course,” said Mrs. Manners, “if I don’t have to do anything too complicated.”

“No, it’s quite easy,” said John. “You just hold her and give her handfuls of oats occasionally. I’d better go and catch her,” he added, and ran to the stable to fetch some oats and halters, feeling as if a load had been taken off his mind.

He caught the ponies, which were turned out in a large meadow with several of Colonel Manners’ pedigree Jersey cows, and, mounting Turpin off the gate, he rode up the rutty cart-track to the farm-yard leading Blackie. He put her in Dick Turpin’s box and tied him in one of the cart-horse stalls; then, whistling merrily, John fetched the tack, which he hadn’t cleaned since the first Pony Club rally. Turpin’s saddle was rather big for Blackie, but the rubber snaffle, which he had bought with the money he had won in the junior swimming race at his school, fitted perfectly when fixed on Turpin’s bridle. John put the bridle on over the halter, as Major Holbrooke had instructed, for, naturally, Blackie had to be controlled by the halter until she had been taught the meaning of the rein-aids.

When he was ready, John fetched his mother and, while she held Blackie, he went all through the business of putting his weight in the stirrup, lying on his tummy on her back, and finally slipping his leg across and sitting in the saddle. Then, as the pony seemed quiet, John asked his mother to lead her round the box.

“Thanks awfully, Mum,” said John as he dismounted. “Will you help me again to-morrow?”

Mrs. Manners said she would, and then she asked whether he had thought of a permanent name for Blackie. yet.

“No,” said John despondently. “Nothing I think of seems to suit her. Now Jackdaw is an awfully nice name, but it’s no good for a mare, and it’s the same with everyone I think of. If only she were a gelding, I’d have had the choice of dozens of super ones.”

“Have you thought of Sweep or Jet?” asked Mrs. Manners.

“No,” said John. “Sweep isn’t bad, but it’s rather common. Ponies in books are often called it, and, of course, it’s really more suitable for a gelding—you don’t have women sweeps. But Jet,” he went on reflectively, “I like that better. It’s nice and short, and I don’t know any ponies called it. It’s all right for a mare, and Blackie is certainly jet black enough. You know, Mum, I think that’s what I’ll call her.” And, fetching the lunge-rein, he added, “Thank goodness that’s settled at last.”

“If you’re going to lunge her before lunch, you’ll have to hurry, dear,” said Mrs. Manners, “for you know how dad hates you to be late.”

“All right,” said John. “I shan’t be long; though I don’t suppose the world would end if I was five minutes late for lunch. One might just as well be at school if dad’s going to make such a fuss about being in time for things.” And, pulling Jet round roughly, he led her into the dairy-cows’ field, which was the nearest, and started to lunge her. For some unknown reason Jet, who usually behaved perfectly, decided—as horses and ponies sometimes will—that she was not going round to the left, and when John told her to, she just swung round and trotted off to the right. The first few times John did his best to obey Major Holbrooke’s instructions for dealing with this sort of trouble: he shortened the lunge-rein and placed himself even more behind Jet, so that he was in a better position to drive her forward, but, unfortunately, he wasn’t quick enough in anticipating her, and his aid to go forward generally arrived after she had turned, and only served to make her go round in the wrong direction faster than ever. It was about the sixth time Jet did this that John, who had become hotter and crosser with every moment, lost his temper completely. He hit her savagely several times with his whip. Terrified, she leaped forward, and, pulling the lunge-rein out of John’s hand, she galloped to the far end of the field. Red in the face with rage, John ran after her. She had pulled up in the shelter of a group of chestnut trees, which stood on the brow of the hill—sentinels for the sleeping pastures of Basset Bottom lying in the windless valley below—but when she saw John coming she walked nervously away, though not before he had grabbed the end of the trailing lunge-rein. Pulling her up short, he struck her across the nose with his clenched fist. She started back. He jagged her mouth viciously and hit her again and again. Jet was terrified; she trembled and shook all over, but John was too angry to care. Picking up the whip, he made her canter round and round on the lunge-rein, hitting her if she showed the slightest sign of slowing up. At last, when his rage had burned itself out, John turned the exhausted, giddy and frightened pony out in her field and wandered morosely in to lunch.

Susan had to wait until Saturday to back Sunset, for Noel, who had promised to help her, was still in bed, and Susan was determined not to ask Bob, partly because she felt the other members might think it unfair if her groom helped her and partly because she knew that Bob’s ideas on breaking were, almost entirely, culled from “cowboy films,” and would be unlikely to agree with Major Holbrooke’s more humane, though less spectacular, methods. So she resigned herself to await her father’s return on Saturday. Mr. Barington-Brown wasn’t really interested in horses, but he was a good-natured man, and, since Susan was the only member of his family whom it was possible to satisfy, he liked doing things for her. After the usual unpleasant lunch-time, when Mrs. Barington-Brown had complained that the peaches were unripe, the servants insolent, and the new fur coat Mr. Barington-Brown had bought her—musquash instead of mink—and Valerie had brought up the eternal argument over the lounge, Mr. Barington-Brown, delighted to be able to please someone, readily agreed to hold Sunset while Susan backed her.

They had very little trouble, for Sunset was not at all nervous, and since Susan, who had taken Major Holbrooke’s advice very much to heart, had been careful not to pinch her with the girth, she had almost given up being difficult to saddle. Mr. Barington-Brown was very impressed by the way in which “his little girl”, as he always thought of Susan, handled her pony, and he thought what a good thing it was that he had braved Mrs. Barington-Brown’s displeasure and bought Beauty. Later on that day, when he was sitting in the lounge—the old-fashionedness of which so exasperated Valerie—smoking his after-dinner cigar, he imagined Susan winning class after class at Olympia and being presented with enormous gold cups by the King and Queen. He heard himself, mildly triumphant, say to Mrs. Barington-Brown, “So you see, Mother, buying that pony wasn’t such a waste of money after all.”

Richard did not back Red Rufus until the last day but one of the holidays. Each day he put it off to the next. First he had promised to go for a bicycle ride with Michael Thorpington, a friend of his, who lived at Friar’s Fenchurch; next it was too wet; then he had no one to help him; and when Jill offered to, he felt too tired. But at last he realised that the holidays were almost over, and, deciding that it was a matter of now or never, he borrowed Wendy’s felt saddle and jointed-snaffle bridle and began the tedious task of putting them on Rufus, who from the first had learned to dread being bridled. He looked on it as we do on an unpleasant visit to the dentist’s, though without the comforting knowledge that the dentist will hurt as little as he possibly can; for Richard carelessly banged his teeth, poked his eyes, tweaked his ears, and was generally too lazy to alter the bridle to fit him. So throughout the lesson Rufus’ lips would be stretched into a false and painful smile and his cheek-bones rubbed by the too high noseband. It was not surprising that, as soon as he saw Richard carrying the tack, he began to dash round the tree to which he was tied—the Morrissons had no stables, for when Mr. Morrisson had built the house he had dismissed them as an added and unnecessary expense. Richard dumped the saddle on and made a grab for the girth, but Rufus, with the memory of many painful pinches, cow-kicked at him.

“Stop it, you little brute,” said Richard, jumping out of reach and hitting him sharply on the shoulder. Rufus whirled as far round the tree as his halter would allow him. The saddle fell off and he trod on it. Richard said several words which would have shocked his parents, but not his school-fellows, and tied Rufus up much tighter. Then, picking up the now muddy saddle, he tried again, this time with more success. He got it on and pulled the girth up with a triumphant wrench, pinching a large piece of the tender skin under Rufus’ elbow, and when he retaliated with a nip, Richard hit him again, muttering, “Will you stop that, you vicious little brute!”

Richard fetched Jill to help him with the bridle, and it took the pair of them at least ten minutes to put it on. Both of them were hot and cross and Rufus upset and excited when they led him into the hen-run—the only enclosed place they could think of—and Richard tried to mount. But Rufus did not even give him time to put his foot in the stirrup; he just whirled round and round, and Jill was quite unable to hold him still. Richard hopped after him, becoming hotter and hotter and grumbling at Jill, who said it was his fault for being so slow at mounting and that she betted June’s pony stood like a rock.

At last, when he was exhausted from hopping, Richard suggested that Jill should have a try while he held Rufus. Jill didn’t like the idea of this at all, and she was just about to refuse when Richard said, “Oh, well, never mind if you’re afraid. You’d better run along and play with your dolls, Baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” said Jill, stamping her foot at him, “and I didn’t say I wouldn’t try.” Flinging the halter-rope at Richard, she rammed her foot into the stirrup and, digging her toe in Rufus’ side, which made him leap forward, she landed with a crash in the saddle. Rufus braced himself for a buck, but Richard just managed to pull his head up in time to prevent it.

“Jolly good,” he said. “Now hold tight and I’ll lead you round a bit.”

Now that Jill’s rage had evaporated, she felt very nervous, and knowing this made Rufus feel more frightened than ever. Neither of the children spoke a reassuring word to him. The pinching girth, the tight bridle and the unaccustomed weight on his back were almost unbearable. He tried to buck, but Richard held him in an iron grasp. Rufus wondered how he could get rid of all these horrible contraptions. He wished he were back in the big field in Hampshire. Suddenly he felt so miserable and lonely that he stopped to neigh. He neighed to the five other ponies to ask if they were being treated like this, but his neigh wasn’t loud enough. It didn’t reach to the lush pastures of Basset Bottom, where Jet, having eaten her fill, was lying, replete and sleepy in the thin autumn sunshine; nor to Sunset, waiting, bored stiff, in her box for Susan to come and ride her. Rocket and Romany, racing up and down their field, heard nothing but the wind in their manes and the drumming of their hoofs; while Grey Dawn, resting a leg in the paddock at Dormers and listening enthralled to one of Golden Wonder’s anecdotes of the show-ring, had no ears for anything but the story. The neigh only startled the respectable Rhode Island hens, and was borne away on the breeze towards Friar’s Fenchurch.

“Come on, can’t you,” said Richard crossly as he dragged Rufus forward, “and stop making that beastly row.”

Chapter V

JUNE was the only horse-breaker whose pony was far advanced enough to be ridden loose by the end of the summer holidays. Evelyn Radcliffe tried to ride Romany one day when none of her family was about, but she was bucked off twice, and then she gave up. The rest of the Pony Club members remembered Major Holbrooke’s advice about making quite sure that their pony understood the leg- and rein-aids before trying to ride without an assistant to help, if he became excited or started to play up. The Major had pointed out that there was nothing brave or clever in riding a pony off the lead-rein before he was ready. It was asking for trouble, and, when trouble came, the only way to control a pony which didn’t know the aids was by strength. That, he had said, was the old-fashioned rough-rider’s method, and quite out of place in modern horsemanship, where our aim was to produce, through a series of suppling and balancing exercises, a well-schooled animal with free action, good head carriage, and, as would automatically follow, a good mouth; not a bucking broncho careering about on his fore-hand, quite unstoppable because he had learnt to fear, and then to avoid the bit before being taught how to obey it.

Certainly neither Jet nor Rufus understood the aids, and John and Richard went back to their boarding schools grumbling bitterly about the unfair advantage the girls would have because they would be able to school their ponies every week-end throughout the term: for all of them were at day schools except Hilary and Evelyn, who were weekly boarders at St. Crispin’s, in Gunston, a cathedral town some twelve miles from Brampton. Susan also went to school in Gunston, but, as Mrs. Barington-Brown thought boarding schools an unnecessary expense, she was driven in daily by Cookson. June, and now Noel, went to Pinelands, in Brampton, which June loved, as you played games all the time and never learned anything, and Noel hated for the same reason. Jill Morrisson went to a very babyish school at Upper Basset, where you made raffia mats. Margaret and James Radcliffe were there too, but they were lucky, for they had to go only in the mornings, because Dr. Radcliffe didn’t approve of people of their ages—which were seven and nine—learning too much, so in the afternoons they were allowed to ride Pixie and Darkie in the small field or out with Mrs. Radcliffe if she took the dogs for a walk, on the days when she didn’t go to London, where she had a dress-designing business.

It was in the second week of the term, on one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s London days, that Margaret told James that they must begin to teach Rocket and Romany their circus tricks.

“But won’t Hilary and Evelyn be cross?” asked James. “You know they said we weren’t to touch them.”

“Of course not,” said Margaret. “You wait till they see the ponies doing their tricks—they’ll be simply amazed. When they said we weren’t to muck about with them,” she went on, “they only meant we weren’t to ride or lunge them, ’cause you know how fussy Doc. is, but now I’ve helped Evelyn I know all about it. Besides, you know Major Holbrooke said the ponies needed handling in the term-time; and if we don’t handle Romany and Rocket in the week, June’s pony will beat them easily ’cause she’s a daygirl, and can train it every evening, while Hilary and Evelyn only have the week-ends.”

James, all his doubts allayed by Margaret’s arguments, entered into the idea at once. They planned wildly as they collected some halters and a bucket of oats, and by the time they reached the field they had visions of Rocket and Romany standing on tubs and leaping through flaming hoops. Besides the Orchard, where they kept the hens, ducks, geese, bantams, and rabbits, the Radcliffes had three fields: there was the little paddock at the back of the house, where Hilary and Evelyn rode the youngsters and Margaret and James were supposed to ride if they were alone; the square flat field where they jumped; and the five-acre one, which they called the hill field, because it ran up the side of the hog-shaped hill from which the Priory had got its name.

“Now,” said Margaret as they reached the hill-field gate. “I’ve bagged Romany, so you’ll have to have Rocket. Here’s his halter.”

They caught the ponies easily enough, and then, as Margaret thought it would be the simplest trick to start with, they began to teach them to shake hands—picking up their hoofs, shaking them, and then rewarding the ponies with oats, actually in exactly the same way as they had seen Roger teach Roly and Poly, the dachshund puppies, in the Easter holidays. For a little while they were each intent on their pupil, then suddenly James shouted excitedly, “Look, Marga! Quick, look!” Turning, Margaret saw Rocket waving his forefoot wildly in the air. “Jolly good,” she said. “That’s fine.” But at heart she was not so pleased; she felt that James had beaten her, which was annoying, for she thought that, being the elder, she should naturally be the best at everything.

“You are stupid,” she told Romany. “You’re not half as intelligent as Rocket. Now for goodness’ sake attend and shake hands!”

A few minutes later there was another shriek from James. “Look,” he said, “I’ve taught him another trick; he’ll follow me anywhere.” And he ran a short way to demonstrate. Rocket trotted after him, his ears flat back, and a threatening expression which plainly said, “Give me those oats, or I’ll kick and bite you to bits,” written on his face. Unfortunately, as each time James stopped running he rewarded him with a handful of oats, Rocket really believed that his blackmailing faces were having the desired effect. Margaret was even more annoyed when she saw this new trick. “Will you come on, you obstinate old thing,” she said, giving Romany’s halter an impatient jerk. “Rocket’s learnt two tricks, and you’re so jolly silly you can’t even do one yet. Jim,” she went on, “do come and help me with this brainless animal; you can tie Rocket to the gate.”

James tied Rocket up and went to Margaret, who said:

“You slap her leg at the top while I push her weight back.” And to Romany, “Now will you come on, shake hands?”

So far Romany, who did not in the least understand what she was supposed to do, had stood meekly while Margaret thumped and pushed her, but the combination of James slapping her leg and Margaret jerking the halter-rope was too much; feeling she could bear it no longer, she reared. For a moment both children were speechless with amazement. Then Margaret said:

“Oh, isn’t she wonderful! Just like a real circus pony. You are a clever little pony; that’s a much better trick than either of Rocket’s.” And she gave Romany several handfuls of oats.

“I bet Rocket could do that,” said James, defending his pupil. “I bet he could learn to lie down; but you shouldn’t teach them too many tricks the same day. Anyway, I don’t expect Romany will do it again.”

“Yes, she will,” said Margaret. “Come on, old lady, you show him. Up, up,” she went on, jerking the halter-rope. After a few moments Romany realised what she wanted, and once again she reared up.

“There you are,” said Margaret triumphantly. “I knew she would.” And she gave Romany another handful of oats.

“Won’t it be lovely,” said James, “when they’re all trained? Roly, Poly, and Cinders, if Doc. will lend her to us, must all come in, and we must think of some tricks for the other ponies. Even the cats might come in, if only they’ll attend instead of always thinking about food. It’ll be an awfully big circus; we might even have a lion later on.”

“Yes,” said Margaret, “it’ll be a simply enormous circus. Everyone will come miles to see it, and we shall all make our fortunes. I shall buy seven hunters and a pack of hounds. I suppose you’ll buy a silly yacht.”

“I don’t want a yacht,” said James. “They’ve no guns. I shall buy a schooner, with lots of enormous guns, and scuppers for the blood to run in.”

“Ugh!” said Margaret. “Think of hosing them out afterwards.”

“The cabin-boy will do that,” said James airily.

“I think I shall live in a caravan,” said Margaret, “a red and yellow one, and I’ll have two Suffolk Punches to pull it, so that it won’t be too heavy.”

“Yes, it must be nice to be a gipsy,” said James; “nearly as nice as being a sailor; you can wear a spotted handkerchief and ear-rings, and cook rabbit stew over a camp fire.”

“It must be a lovely life,” agreed Margaret—“all horses and dogs.”

They both stood in silence for a few moments contemplating the future. James saw himself, a dignified figure, covered in gold braid, pacing the quarter-deck with a telescope under his arm; above, the Southern Cross gleamed, far brighter than any English star. Margaret saw a winding road, a gaily painted caravan drawn briskly by stalwart Suffolks between the tall hedges overgrown with dog-roses. Two of the carefully schooled hunters were tied behind and an assortment of dogs ran ahead. The vision faded, she said, “I suppose we’d better let the ponies go. I feel awfully empty. It must be tea-time.”

On the following afternoon Margaret and James gave the ponies another lesson. Romany knew her trick perfectly: she would rear at the slightest jerk of the halter, but Margaret still could not persuade her to shake hands. Rocket began to paw the air wildly as soon as he smelt the oats, and, when rewarded with a handful, he was in such a hurry that he bit James’ hand, which made him cry. After that they swopped ponies, and while James tried to teach Romany to shake hands, Margaret did her utmost to make Rocket rear. She didn’t succeed, but she had one of her coat buttons ripped off and a hole torn in her pocket from his attempts to get the oats, which he knew she had in them. James managed to persuade Romany to pick up her hoof when asked to shake hands, but she would not wave it out like Rocket. Still, they were very pleased with their pupils’ progress, and they constantly thought what a lovely surprise they were going to give Hilary and Evelyn. On Friday they had a dress rehearsal. They decorated the ponies with ribbons and coloured feathers from a Red Indian headdress belonging to James, and they plastered their own faces with flour and their mother’s lipstick in an attempt to look like clowns. Unfortunately Rocket was even more excitable. He bit James’ pockets every few seconds. He shook hands so wildly that he hit him on the arm with his hoof and reduced him to tears, and later, when he was supposed to be following James, he barged his quarters into him, knocking him over and upsetting the bucket of oats which he was carrying. James began to cry again; he said that Rocket had trodden on his toe and hurt his arm.

“You are feeble,” said Margaret crossly. “Do stop crying, it’s so jolly baby-ish. Why don’t you stop him eating the oats instead of lying there? You’re just letting him get his own way, and you know Hilary and Evelyn said it was the worst thing you could do.”

James said Margaret was beastly, and that he hated her, and she said he was a cry-baby, and that she hated him. James said all right then, he wouldn’t help with the circus any more, and Margaret said she didn’t want the help of a snivelling baby. Then as James stamped off across the field in a rage, she shouted after him that he needn’t think he was going to help surprise Evelyn and Hilary next day, as she didn’t want everything spoilt by a cowardly fool. So when at lunch on Saturday Margaret told Hilary and Evelyn that she had a surprise for them, James stared moodily at his plate and said nothing. Afterwards, when Margaret had gone, telling them to follow in ten minutes, he collected his six favourite small boats and wandered off to sail them in the water-butt.

Hilary and Evelyn were both very curious about Margaret’s surprise. As they changed their school clothes for jodhpurs they discussed what it could be.

“I expect it’s something dull like a hut,” said Hilary. “You know how often we used to build them in the wood.”

“She’s not going to drag us all the way up there just to see a beastly hut, is she?” said Evelyn.

“Well, we can catch the ponies on the way back,” said Hilary. “I hope she hasn’t been messing about with them,” she added anxiously on second thoughts.

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Evelyn. “Doc. forbade her to ride them until they were quiet; though actually Romany is pretty quiet now. I think I’ll ride her by myself to-day.”

“I don’t think we’d better ride them together,” said Hilary, collecting her bowler hat and riding-stick. “I’ll stand in the middle while you ride Romany, and grab her if she starts to fool around, if you’ll do the same when I ride Rocket.”

“I don’t suppose Romany’ll do anything,” said Evelyn. “But I don’t mind hanging around if you think Rocket’s likely to play up. Are you ready?” she went on, and when Hilary said she was, “Come on, then; let’s go and see this tiresome surprise.”

When they reached the hill field, Hilary and Evelyn were not at all pleased to see Romany and Rocket, adorned with ribbons and feathers, tied to the gate.

“She has been mucking about with them, then,” said Evelyn.

“I hope she hasn’t done anything silly,” said Hilary.

“Look here, Marga,” said Evelyn, when they were within speaking distance, “you know we told you to leave those ponies alone.”

“All right, keep calm,” said Margaret, who had foreseen this. “I haven’t hurt them a bit, and when we’ve all made our fortunes you’ll have to be jolly grateful.”

“Grateful for what?” asked Hilary.

“Wait a minute and you’ll see,” said Margaret as she untied Romany from the gate. “Shake hands,” she ordered. And, as Romany obeyed, Hilary breathed a sigh of relief. “If that’s all,” she said to Evelyn, “she hasn’t done any harm.” But scarcely were the words out of her mouth when Margaret said, “Up, Romany, up!” and jerked the halter-rope. Romany reared high. Both Hilary and Evelyn gasped with what Margaret wrongly took to be joy and amazement.

“Isn’t she good?” she asked, her voice full of pride. “Doesn’t she do it beautifully?”

“Good!” echoed Hilary. “Good! Don’t you realise what you’ve done? Don’t you know that rearing is incurable?”

“Well, of all the interfering, idiotic, silly, half-witted fools you’re about the worst,” said Evelyn furiously. “Why the dickens can’t you leave another person’s pony alone?”

“You are beastly,” said Margaret, bursting into a loud roar “After all the trouble I’d taken to train them so as to give you a lovely surprise.”

“A lovely surprise! Are you stark, staring mad?” asked Hilary. “What have you taught Rocket?”

“Only to shake hands and trot after me,” replied Margaret through her tears. “But I jolly well shan’t show you now; you’re too beastly ungrateful. I hate you both.”

“That’s nothing to what we think of you,” said Evelyn. “And to say that we ought to be grateful—grateful for having our ponies spoilt!”

Meanwhile Hilary, who had untied Rocket and was taking the ribbons and feathers out of his mane, found, to her dismay, that the friendly expression which she had grown so fond of was replaced by a threatening mask, and the once gentle pony had been transformed into a bullying animal, which nipped her about a dozen times in the space of a few minutes.

“Oh, Marga,” she said in a despairing voice, “what have you done to him? He’s quite different.” Just at that moment Rocket, which had grown tired of waiting for his oats, struck out impatiently with his hoof, narrowly missing Hilary, who dodged to one side. He thought he had frightened her, but as she still did not give him any oats, he made a blackmailing face and seized her pocket in his teeth. Hilary smacked his nose, and in a fury he swung round his heels and barged his quarters into her. Suddenly Hilary could bear it no longer. She pulled Rocket’s halter off, climbed the gate and, ignoring both her sisters, ran in the direction of the house.

Mrs. Radcliffe hadn’t heard much of the conversation at lunch, for she had suddenly thought of a design for an evening dress, and afterwards she had gone to the Prior’s room—as they still called the little room overlooking the walled garden, where once a succession of priors had meditated and which she now used as a sort of studio—and started to draw it. She had just fetched her paints, and was wondering whether black and crimson or turquoise and silver would be the more striking, when Hilary burst in. Her face was as red as a beetroot, and she was obviously on the verge of tears.

“Mummy,” she said, “whatever shall we do? The little half-wit has absolutely ruined them.” Flopping into a chair, she produced a large red handkerchief, embellished with foxes’ masks, and began to sniff loudly into it.

“Who’s ruined what?” asked Mrs. Radcliffe, concerned to see the usually calm and level-headed Hilary in such despair.

“That little idiot Marga,” said Hilary. “She’s been trying to teach them circus tricks, and they’re completely spoilt. Heaven knows what Major Holbrooke will say.” And at the thought of what the Major might say, she sniffed even more loudly into the red handkerchief, which actually belonged to Evelyn.

“Margaret is the limit,” said Mrs. Radcliffe crossly. “Your father and I both told her to leave those ponies alone. What has she actually done?”

“She didn’t mean to do any harm,” said Hilary. “She meant to give us a surprise, but she must have simply stuffed Rocket with oats, for he nips all the time, makes horrid faces, and barges into you if you won’t give him anything. He used to be such a nice friendly pony.”

“What about Romany?” asked Mrs. Radcliffe.

“She’s taught her to rear,” said Hilary between sniffs, “and it’s supposed to be incurable. We haven’t tried riding her yet, but it’s ten to one she’ll do it if she doesn’t want to go somewhere—they always do—and, if she’s vicious, Major Holbrooke’s cousin won’t be able to sell her as a child’s pony; he’ll have to send them both to some beastly market and they’re sure to get bad homes.” At the thought of this she cried harder than ever. Mrs. Radcliffe did her best to be consoling. She said:

“I know I don’t know much about them, but aren’t ponies rather like children? I mean, children often acquire dreadful habits—I remember Roger bit his nails, you and Evelyn would suck your thumbs, and, as you know, it was only a couple of years ago that James gave up stuttering. Taken in time, and with plenty of understanding and patience, these things can be cured. I agree it’s absolutely infuriating to have to waste so much time undoing Margaret’s meddling, but I shouldn’t despair.”

“I don’t mind how much time I spend,” said Hilary, “as long as I cure him; but it’s rather difficult with ponies. I mean, you can’t explain things to them. If only I could speak horse language,” she added with a sigh.

“Surely, if we keep Marga away from them and you and Evelyn scold them every time they do their wretched tricks, they’ll forget them in the end,” said Mrs. Radcliffe.

“I suppose they might,” said Hilary without much conviction. “It does seem such a shame. They were getting on so well, and Rocket was so gentle, he would have made a lovely pony for children.”

“I dare say he will yet,” said Mrs. Radcliffe in the most cheerful tones she could muster. “After all, it’s not as though they’ve been doing them long. I think you’ll find that when Rocket discovers that his faces and nips don’t intimidate you into giving him titbits, he’ll realise they’re pointless and give them up.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Hilary, cheering up a little. “But I shall have a job to get him right by the Christmas holidays. I think I’d better start retraining him at once.” And stuffing the red handkerchief into her pocket, she leapt to her feet and hurried out of the room.

“Why on earth,” muttered Mrs. Radcliffe, pushing her long white hand through her crisp red hair, “do we have children?”

Hilary spent that week-end and most of the succeeding ones in re-educating Rocket. It was a thankless task, not made any easier by Margaret’s and Evelyn’s constant quarrels; for Evelyn now attributed every fault of Romany’s, no matter how unlikely, to Margaret’s circus tricks.

“Dash that kid,” she would say when Romany cow-kicked as she was girthed up. “She’s ruined this pony’s temper.” Or when she was bucked off, “Another of Marga’s circus tricks, I suppose.” Naturally, Margaret hotly denied all blame for these innumerable and varied wickednesses, and as she was unable to keep away from her sisters when they were schooling, each lesson was punctuated by a back-wash of unpleasantness. Hilary, who found it impossible for herself and Rocket to concentrate with angry arguments going on near-by, took to rising early and riding alone. Apart from his bullying habits, Rocket was behaving well, and the week-end before half-term Hilary took him out for a ride, accompanied by James on Darkie, to give him confidence and for Dr. Radcliffe’s peace of mind. Evelyn found hacking Romany rather dull, for the pony was too unfit to go fast or far. She preferred riding in the field, sometimes with Margaret and sometimes alone, where she practised competitions: potato and bending races, musical chairs and jumping, for the gymkhanas. Secretly she hoped to cause a great sensation, she hoped to win an untold number of events on Romany—a perfectly schooled gymkhana pony. Let June, she thought, who is sure to be best anyway, excel at niggling, finicking show-riding. I’ll show them when it comes to the competitions. At that time Romany was far from being perfectly trained. She had been hotted-up in races against the older ponies long before she knew the aids, and consequently was quite uncontrollable except by strength. It was, of course, fairly easy for Evelyn, who was much too big for Romany, to manage her; also, though not an elegant rider, she was very firm in the saddle. In races when she could not stop Romany she wrenched her round in a circle; and in jumping, when Romany tried, as she often did, to run out or refuse, Evelyn’s long legs would be round her like a vice and her stick ready for a sharp hit on the take-off stride. If she did manage to refuse, Romany had found to her cost that she invariably received a severe beating “for being such a jolly obstinate, lazy pony,” and galloping round the field flat out did not deter Evelyn, who enjoyed speed more than anything, and just made her go on galloping until she felt she would burst for want of breath.

To Noel the term seemed endless. Each dreary day dragged by even more slowly and monotonously than its predecessor, while, in comparison, the week-ends passed like a flash of lightning. Every Saturday morning she would walk over to the Spinneys to fetch Rusty, Simon Wentwood’s dark-brown New Forest pony, which she had been told she could borrow during the term. Rusty, who was about thirteen hands high, was slightly fresher and a much nicer ride than Topsy. But he had one or two faults: he pulled with his head down when he was excited. He was nappy, and he was sometimes difficult to catch. It was his jumping that pleased Noel most; she had never been able to persuade Topsy to jump higher than two feet, but on Rusty, who hardly ever refused, she had cleared three feet three inches without falling off.

Some days Noel rode and jumped in Farmer Trent’s meadow, and occasionally she went for a solitary hack, but more often she rode to Basset Towers, put him in a box, and then rode Beauty out with Susan on Sunset. It was on one of these rides, when they had been across the Hogshill fields and were going home by the Basset-Fenchurch road, that they had to pass Dormers, the modernised Elizabethan cottage where the Cresswells lived. Seeing June riding Grey Dawn in the field, they pulled up and, standing in their stirrups to see over the hedge, they watched her. It seemed that June had some white posts, like Major Holbrooke’s, to mark out a school round which she was trotting Grey Dawn, turning and zig-zagging across it at intervals. Occasionally she would pull up and turn on the forehand.

“Gosh,” said Noel, “she’s certainly schooling her up to show standard. I wish I could teach Rusty that sort of thing.”

“Oh, goodness!” said Susan. “I hope I haven’t got to teach Sunset all that. I know I could never remember it for a moment—it’s nearly as bad as geometry.”

“You’ll have to,” Noel said, “unless you want her to be the worst trained of all the ponies.” Susan was just saying that she would be anyway when a voice asked, “Would you like to come in and watch properly? I’m sure June won’t mind.” Looking round, they saw Mrs. Cresswell standing at the gate; her waved iron-grey hair was, as always, held neatly in place by a substantial hair-net, and she was wearing a coat and skirt of that particularly revolting shade, electric green.

“Good afternoon,” said Noel, thankful that they hadn’t been criticising June. “We should love to.”

Susan made a reproachful face at Noel, who only grinned and rode through the gate, which Mrs. Cresswell was holding open. Thinking, Why couldn’t she say no? Now our whole ride will be spoilt, Susan followed.

“We were just wishing we could do turns on the forehand and all that sort of thing,” said Noel to Mrs. Cresswell, who replied:

“Well, I’m sure June will give you a few tips. She’s always willing to help any one; and you can take it from me she knows what she’s talking about. June, June!” she called when they reached the field gate. “Here are Noel and Susan; they want you to show them how you do it.”

June turned Grey Dawn and cantered up.

“Hallo,” she said, seeming to give all four of them, riders and ponies, a critical stare.

“Hallo,” answered Noel and Susan.

“Look, dear,” said Mrs. Cresswell to June, “they were watching you over the hedge, so I brought them in, and Noel wants to know how to do the turns. I said you’d show her.”

“Dawn knows both the turn on the forehand and on the haunches,” said June. “This is on the forehand.” As she turned her, Mrs. Cresswell said, “For that you use lateral aids, and the fore-legs should stay still, while the hind ones move round.”

“This is the turn on the haunches,” said June. “It’s more difficult; beginners shouldn’t try to do it.”

“You see, you pull one rein, neck-rein with the other, use one leg, rather far forward to push the shoulder round, and the other to keep the quarters still,” explained Mrs. Cresswell. “Now, June,” she went on, “give them a little show; let them see what you’ve taught her.”

“All right,” said June. “I’ll begin by doing the diagonal change of hand at the extended walk.”

“Whatever’s that?” asked Susan.

“Don’t you know the school figures?” asked June, thinly veiled scorn in her voice.

“No, I’ve never heard of them,” said Susan, not in the least squashed.

“But how do you manage to school your little pony, then?” asked Mrs. Cresswell.

“I haven’t given her any proper schooling yet,” replied Susan. “I just ride and lunge her.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “Then I don’t suppose she can do anything like Grey Dawn, who is really becoming quite accomplished under June’s tuition; but perhaps you’re wise not to attempt this advanced stuff if you don’t really understand it, for there’s no doubt you need talent, and, of course, there are plenty of homes for beginners’ ponies, but very few for properly schooled ones, as really good child riders are few and far between.”

Meanwhile June, having ridden the diagonal change of hand, which, to Noel, looked exactly the same as a figure of eight, only with straight sides as it was ridden round the school, broke into a trot and then a canter.

“She’s got her on the right leg,” said Mrs. Cresswell with pride. Noel peered wildly to see how you distinguished the leading leg, which, in spite of all Major Holbrooke’s instruction, she still could not do.

“To-morrow,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “June is going to teach her the change of leg. That just shows how she’s getting on, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, rather,” said Noel. “I should think she’s miles ahead of all the others.”

“I’m sure she is,” said Mrs. Cresswell complacently. “But that is to be expected—I mean, none of the other kiddies know the first thing about it. After all, June has ridden, and won, at some of the biggest shows in the country. But what have they done? Just slopped about on some dead-quiet common animal, barely fit to pull a cart—that’s not riding, you know. Frankly,” she went on, “I think Major Holbrooke was very unwise to turn a lot of unbroken ponies loose on them; but still, that’s his affair; one can only hope no harm will come of it. Now look, June is doing a full passage.”

As Grey Dawn moved sideways, Noel realised that Mrs. Cresswell meant what Major Holbrooke called a full pass. She had forgotten the aids for it, but she didn’t dare ask Mrs. Cresswell, as she was afraid of being squashed. She watched enviously as June back-reined and then cantered a figure of eight, pulling up in the middle, for Dawn had not learned the flying change yet.

When June said she had finished, Mrs. Cresswell suggested, without consulting Susan, that she might ride Sunset. Saying rather ungraciously that she supposed she might as well try her, June mounted and rode round the field several times. When she came back to the gate she said, “Of course, she’s completely unschooled, her mouth is like iron, she doesn’t understand any of the aids, and she’s awfully nappy—you can feel her edging towards the gate the whole time.”

“Well, you mustn’t be too critical, dear,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “You have to remember that you’d never ridden anything but good ones until you had Dawn, and now that you’ve trained her you’ve forgotten what she was like to start with. I expect Susan thoroughly enjoys playing around with little Sunset, and she’ll make a nice mount for a small kiddy on the leading-rein, for she seems quiet enough.”

“Oh, yes, she’ll do for a beginner,” said June contemptuously.

Then Mrs. Cresswell told June that they must take Dawn in or she would catch a chill, and Noel and Susan said that they must go home to their teas. They all walked up to the stables, three portable wooden loose-boxes, and, while June put Dawn away, Mrs. Cresswell showed Noel and Susan Golden Wonder, who looked very smart—clipped and rugged up—and all the rosettes June had won, which were displayed in a glass case in the harness-room. She offered to take them indoors and show them June’s cups and the nineteen riding-sticks she had won, but they said that they really must go, and after thanking both Mrs. Cresswell and June, they rode hastily away.

“Have you noticed how accomplished Beauty is becoming under my talented tuition, Susan?” asked Noel as soon as they were out of earshot.

“I knew she’d swank,” said Susan. “We’ve wasted hours of our ride and not learned a thing.”

“Yes, I have,” said Noel. “You wait, I’ll give you a few tips next Saturday, for you’re only a small kiddy slopping along on the leading-rein on a dead-quiet cart-pony, while I’ve ridden at some of the biggest shows in the country.”

“Oh, do shut up,” said Susan. “If you learned anything I didn’t, and I don’t see why they should be so beastly about Sunset. Why should she cart horrid, whining children about on the leading-rein?”

“It’s no good going on like this,” said Noel, becoming serious. “You’ve simply got to school her properly.”

“I can’t,” said Susan. “You know I’m hopeless at that sort of thing.”

“Well, I can’t tell my right hand from my left,” said Noel, “and that makes it awfully difficult to work out complicated aids, but if we don’t learn somehow we shall never be famous horsewomen or good enough to ride at Olympia.”

“I’m sure I shall never be famous,” said Susan, “or good enough to ride at Olympia, however hard I try.”

“Don’t be such a defeatist,” said Noel. “You haven’t tried yet.”

“How are we to learn?” asked Susan. “We can’t ask Major Holbrooke before the holidays, and there’s no one else.”

“There are other experts,” said Noel, “and they all write books. Surely we could learn from them?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t,” said Susan. “I’ve got a book on riding. Uncle Vic. gave it to me last Christmas, but I only got to page six—it’s terribly dull.”

“Can I borrow it?” asked Noel, willing to catch at any straw. “You never know, it might be just what we need. Wouldn’t it be lovely if we schooled Rusty and Sunset and we were able to give June a little show?”

“You can borrow it,” said Susan. “But it’s no good expecting me to teach Sunset anything. How can I, when I still don’t understand the difference between lateral and diagonal aids?”

Chapter VI

ONE MORNING, at the beginning of the Christmas holidays, Roger Radcliffe was seated in the middle of Brampton market-place on the stone water-trough, which a thoughtful ancestor of Major Holbrooke’s had erected to celebrate his silver wedding. Roger was swinging his legs, whistling the “Sky Boat Song”, and wondering what he could buy Margaret for a Christmas present, when he saw John Manners coming out of the ironmonger’s shop, several awkwardly shaped parcels clasped in his arms.

“Hallo,” shouted Roger. John waved and came across to him.

“Hallo,” he said. “I’m doing my Christmas shopping.”

“Same here,” said Roger. “At least I’ve done most of it, but I’m waiting for Hilary and Evelyn. Heaven knows where they’ve got to. You haven’t seen them, I suppose?”

“No,” said John. “But I’ve only been in Stanlakes’ and Flapton’s. Would you like to see what I’ve bought my father?” he asked after a short pause. “I hope he’ll like it; but he’s an awfully difficult person to think of presents for.” And without waiting for an answer he unwrapped a large rake-like implement for scratching moss out of lawns.

“I should think he’d love that,” said Roger, “especially if he’s keen on gardening.”

“He’s fairly keen,” said John. “And this is what I bought mum.” He unwrapped a smaller parcel and produced three pink coat-hangers. Each had a lavender-bag attached.

“I shouldn’t want them myself,” he said, “but I thought she would like them.”

“Oh, definitely,” said Roger. “Especially as she’s rather a feminine sort of woman, isn’t she?”

“That’s right,” said John. “You know—can’t stand blood or spiders.”

“Bit of a nuisance, I should think,” said Roger. “What would one do with her on a desert island? Thank goodness, none of my sisters are like that—they’re as hard as nails.”

“Here they are,” said John, as two flaming red heads appeared round the corner by the church.

“At last!” said Roger as Hilary and Evelyn came up. Ignoring him, they said hallo to John, and Hilary asked:

“How is your Holbrooke pony getting on? Have you named her yet?”

“Yes, rather!” said John. “I named her Jet last holidays, but I haven’t had time to do much with her yet; I only got back yesterday.”

“Isn’t it a bore about old Georgie’s son?” said Evelyn. “It doesn’t look as though we’ll have any rallies these holidays.”

“Whose son?” asked John.

“Major Holbrooke’s,” explained Hilary. “It’s the middle one—the scientific one—he’s fallen off a mountain and Major and Mrs. Holbrooke have had to rush off to Switzerland, where he’s hovering between life and death.”

“Gosh, what a sell!” said John. “That means we shan’t get on at all these holidays.”

“And no decent children’s meet,” said Evelyn. “For old Sir Charles Dent is Acting-Master, and you know what he’s like.”

“Gosh, yes,” said John. “I’ll say I do. It looks to me as though we’re going to have some pretty dreary holidays.”

“We’ll have to get something up ourselves,” said Roger. “It’s no good sitting back and grumbling because no grown-up arranged anything. We’re not tiny tots any more; surely we could organise a paper chase or something?”

“That’s a super idea,” said John enthusiastically, while Evelyn asked:

“Where could we have it?” and Hilary pointed out:

“We’ll have to use sawdust, not paper, because of the mess.”

“Obviously the hares, or whatever you call them, would have to decide where to go,” said Roger. “But there are masses of places, and one could ask the farmers’ permission to go across their land beforehand. Though, actually, they never mind at this time of year as long as one shuts the gates.”

“I bags be a hare,” said Evelyn.

“You know bagging isn’t allowed,” said Hilary.

“I thought of having it,” said Roger, “so I ought to be one hare.”

“But who will be the hounds?” asked John. “We need more than two.”

“There’s Marga and Jim,” said Evelyn.

“We can invite some of the Pony Club members,” said Hilary.

“Not June Cresswell,” said Evelyn firmly.

“No, we don’t want her,” agreed John. “She’d soon start bossing us all around.”

“We’d have Mrs. C. organising everything before we knew where we were,” said Hilary. “Why does she always butt in?”

“We certainly don’t want that ghastly woman anywhere near,” said Roger. “She’d ruin everything; but we shall definitely have to have some more people for hounds.”

“What about Richard?” asked John rather diffidently.

“Oh, gosh,” said Roger, “must we have him?”

“Well, what about Susan and Noel?” suggested Hilary. “They’re not bad.”

“Oh, Hilary,” said Evelyn, “they’re awfully feeble. They’re sure to fall off and they’ll probably cry.”

“Who is there, then?” asked Hilary. “It’s no good asking people like the Meltons—they live too far away—and that only leaves Mary Compton and the Rates.”

“There’s Michael Thorpington and the Mintons,” said John.

“Michael Thorpington is even worse than Richard,” said Roger, “and the Mintons can’t jump.”

“If you and Evelyn are going to object to everyone we can’t have any hounds,” said Hilary in exasperation. “You’re both so jolly intolerant, but I can’t see why you should be so particular. It’s not as though you’re perfect yourselves.”

“Thanks for the lecture,” said Roger contemptuously. “But I know what we can do: we can each invite one person, and I’ll have Dick Hayward.”

“Oh, yes,” said John. “Why didn’t we think of him before? I wish I had. But still, I can have Richard.” Roger made a face, but said nothing, and Evelyn said:

“Of course, there’s Clarrissa; but really she’s too stupid for words, and so fat.”

“That’s not her fault,” said Hilary quickly.

“All right, I know,” said Evelyn. “But that doesn’t make me any more keen to invite her, though the only alternatives seem to be Susan and Noel.”

“I’ll have Noel,” said Hilary. “After all, it’s not her fault she’s only got that dreadful Topsy.”

“I don’t see why I should be left with that beastly snivelling Susan,” said Evelyn. “It’s not fair. Anyway, I bet she ruins everything.”

“Nonsense,” said Roger. “If she’s as spoilt as you make out, she’ll be able to persuade her father to let us ride over his land, and remember he owns the whole of Swincombe Farm. It’s only let to Hodges.”

“That’s true,” said Evelyn. “O.K., then, I’ll have her.”

“We had each better tell the person we’ve decided to invite,” said Roger. “And, personally, I think our place would be a good spot for the meet—it’s fairly central.”

“Yes, that would be super,” agreed John. “But who is going to be the hare?”

“I should think we’d better have two,” said Hilary, “and that would leave eight hounds, counting Marga and Jim.”

“Shall we four toss up?” suggested Roger. “After all, we thought of it, so I don’t see why two of us shouldn’t be the hares.” As the others agreed, they tossed, and Roger and Hilary won. Then, after some more discussion, they decided to hold the paper-chase two days after Boxing Day, and meet at the Priory at ten o’clock.

“O.K., then,” said John when this was settled. “I’ll let Richard know. By the way, can you tell me where the meet is on Boxing Day?”

“At the Three Jolly Masons, in Friars’ Fenchurch,” said Roger, “and I bet it’ll be the only one over this side of the country these holidays. You know what old Sir Charles is—he likes them all on his doorstep.”

“Lazy old tyke,” said John. And then he added: “Well, I suppose I’d better be going—there’s sure to be a row if I’m late for lunch.”

“We’d better go too,” said Hilary. “The poor old bicycles must be getting pretty fed up with waiting.”

“See you on Boxing Day, John,” said Roger as he mounted Scorpion, his new bicycle—he had hopelessly outgrown both Satan and Spitfire, whom Hilary and Evelyn were riding. They all said good-bye and the Radcliffes whirled away, while John shouldered his moss-raking implement and set off on his long walk back to Lower Basset.

Dick Hayward was delighted, Richard faintly condescending, and Susan surprised and pleased, when they were rung up and invited to the paper-chase. Hilary was slightly annoyed when, after searching in the directory and ringing up the exchange, she discovered that Noel wasn’t on the telephone, but on Christmas Eve she decided to ride Rocket over to Russet Cottage. As Dr. Radcliffe had insisted that neither of the youngsters was to be ridden out alone until they were absolutely reliable, James said he would go with her. Actually, he much preferred Hilary’s company to that of his other sisters, especially as they had decided to ride in the field, and he knew he would be made to join in all sorts of races, in which he was quite sure to be last, and when, as generally happened, he ended by crying, he would be soundly lectured by Evelyn and Margaret on being a bad loser, babyish, and hopelessly feeble.

As she rode along, Hilary thought about Rocket. She thought how lovely it was that he had almost forgotten his circus tricks. At first he had been difficult to groom, because he had waved his fore-feet about whenever one approached him. But he had completely given that up now, for she had scolded him every time he had done it. That had been horrid, because he had so obviously thought he was being clever, and often at night she had lain awake wishing she could speak horse language and so explain to him that the tricks had all been a mistake. But now the worst was over, and Rocket, except for being rather rough if he thought you had a titbit for him, had apparently forgotten his short career as a circus pony. Romany did not seem to be much affected by her trick, for, being a very willing pony, it had not occurred to her to rear or jib, though, as Evelyn put it, she was a bit sticky over jumps. It must be admitted that the twins had had more quarrels over these ponies than ever before in their lives. It seemed that their ideas on breaking differed completely: Evelyn considered Rocket backward and lazy, and Hilary incredibly over-cautious, which to her impetuous nature amounted to almost a sin; while Hilary thought Romany hotted-up and half-trained, and Evelyn’s method of schooling slapdash, inconsistent, and much too hurried.

Hilary thought of all this, and she was glad she had James with her, for he, like herself, was content to ride for hours without speaking, immersed in his own thoughts or fancies. With Evelyn and Margaret one never had much time to think, for both of them thought aloud, which meant they were rarely silent, and though gay enough companions for most occasions, they were sometimes rather trying when one wished to study the beauties of nature or invent poetry.

Noel was schooling Rusty in Farmer Trent’s field when Hilary and James rode up the lane. They stood at the gate and watched her for some time before she noticed them. When she did see them, she felt very self-conscious. I bet they’ve been criticising my riding, she thought. I bet they’ve been pulling our turns on the forehand to pieces, but I suppose I shall have to see what they want. And, turning Rusty, she cantered across the field.

“Hallo,” said Hilary. “Isn’t that Simon Wentwood’s pony?”

“That’s right,” said Noel. “I was allowed to ride him all through the term, and now the Wentwoods have gone away for Christmas, which is marvellous, as I shall be able to hunt him on Boxing Day.”

“How lovely,” said Hilary. “But when do they come back? Not before the twenty-ninth, I hope.”

“No, the first of January,” said Noel. “Why?”

“Well, you see, John Manners and all of us are getting up a paper-chase, because we thought it would be so awfully dull these holidays with no rallies or anything, and we wondered whether you would like to come.”

“I should love to,” said Noel, “but what do I have to do? I mean, I’m awfully bad at jumping and all that sort of thing. Shan’t I be an awful nuisance?”

“Oh, no,” said Hilary kindly, but not very tactfully. “Marga and Jim are coming, and you can’t be much worse than them.”

“I should love to, then,” said Noel. “But why aren’t there going to be any Pony Club rallies?”

“Haven’t: you heard about Major Holbrooke’s son?” asked Hilary, and when she found that Noel hadn’t, she went on to explain about the accident and how tiresome it would be having Sir Charles as Acting-Master. Then, after reminding Noel to be at the Priory by ten o’clock on the twenty-ninth, she said they must go, for she hadn’t wrapped up any of the presents she was giving her family.

When they were out of sight Noel put up her course of jumps, which she had to keep stacked in the corner of the field, as they were very untidy, being made out of the most peculiar assortment of objects: two hen-coops made the first jump, a heap of hedge trimmings posed as a brush-fence, the wall was an old door, the in-and-out was built of bales of straw, and the triple bars were supported by petrol cans and kitchen chairs, borrowed from the cottage.

Rusty jumped a clear round with everything, except the in-and-out, at three feet. This was an enormous improvement, due, Noel felt, to Susan’s book, which had proved a mine of information, and, luckily, agreed with Major Holbrooke’s views on all important matters. The author’s main advice on teaching horses to jump was, like the Major’s, to keep the fences low but wide, and to raise them rarely and a little at a time. This Noel had followed and found successful. She felt very elated as she gave Rusty some carrots and turned him loose, and, as she put her jumps away, she imagined the run of the season on Boxing Day. She was still flying over enormous fences, with only the Master in front of her, when she went indoors to tell her mother about Hilary Radcliffe’s unexpected invitation.

The next few days passed in rather a whirl for most of the Pony Club members. First there was Christmas, which was celebrated in the traditional manner, though Richard refused to hang out his stocking on the grounds “that he wasn’t a kid any more.” On the whole, everyone was delighted with his or her presents, though Noel was very indignant at being given The School Girl’s Annual by her godfather, and Dr. Radcliffe complained bitterly as he opened the thirty-nine calendars he had been sent by grateful patients.

On Boxing Day everyone was feeling morning-after-the-night-before-ish, especially Sir Charles Dent and the weather. It poured with rain from six o’clock in the morning until the late afternoon, and the wet, combined with his liver, made Sir Charles even more irritable than usual. He quarrelled with the Huntsman, shouted at the field, lectured the children, and took the hounds home at half-past three after a completely blank day. In spite of this, all the Pony Club members enjoyed themselves, though they were looking forward to hot baths by the time they got home.

Then, two days later, there was the paper-chase. It was wet and misty at half-past seven when Noel opened her bedroom’s tiny window and looked out. Rivulets of water were coursing down the sodden thatch, the gaunt elms in the field across the lane dripped miserably, and the air was damp and raw. She wondered whether the Radcliffes would postpone the paper-chase, but she decided that they were much too tough to be deterred by a little rain. In a way she was sorry, for, now that the time had come, her fear of doing something silly, or Rusty refusing everything, outweighed her earlier pleasure at the thought of a cross-country ride, especially at the invitation of the Radcliffes. As she dressed, Noel wished she was like them; she wished she was tall, dashing and red-headed, with a complete disregard for what other people thought of her and a knack of making the most obstinate ponies jump. But it’s not a bit of good wishing, she told herself. I’m so terribly feeble, and I’m positive that Hilary despises my riding; but somehow, to-day she resolved, I’ve simply got to show them, I must jump everything, and, whatever happens, I’m not going to be last.

A little later Richard went to his modern, hygienic, steel-framed window. “Oh, dash it!” he muttered on seeing the weather. “It would have to rain. I bet they put it off, and I’m dead certain I could have beaten John and those girls, for paper-chases aren’t like races—you’ve got to use your brain a bit. Anyway, I’m sure Peter is faster than Turpin when it comes to a straight gallop.” Still, he reminded himself, one thing is, that I can go back to bed. And, slamming the window, he did.

By nine o’clock it had stopped raining, and by half-past a faint but persevering gleam had appeared in the sky. Roger and Hilary, stuffing haversacks with sawdust, made encouraging noises to it, but Richard cursed it heartily. Besides losing everything in his effort to hurry, he had a furious row with his mother, who suddenly said he was to take Jill with him. In vain he argued that she hadn’t been invited, couldn’t jump high enough, and as he wasn’t going to hang about while Wendy grazed and refused, would certainly get lost. Mrs. Morrisson insisted, and as Richard was already late in starting, he had no choice but to let Jill follow him. Neither of them spoke the whole way to the Priory, where there was also an atmosphere of thinly veiled unpleasantness; for Susan, seeing Evelyn mount Romany, had asked, in slightly shocked tones, if she was going to ride her in the chase.

“Yes, why not?” replied Evelyn, giving her twin a belligerent look.

“I don’t know,” said Susan. “I only thought it wasn’t supposed to be a good thing for young horses to be galloped and raced, but I suppose otherwise you wouldn’t have enough ponies for all of you.”

“Romany isn’t as young as all that,” said Evelyn, “and I haven’t the least intention of letting her become one of those pampered, nurse-maided show ponies; she’s going to be a hunter and gymkhana pony, and she may as well begin learning now. I could have ridden one of Mrs. Maxton’s ponies if I had wanted to,” she went on, “but she would only let me have Woodcock, and he’s so jolly dull and lazy—like most riding-school ponies—I decided that it would do Romany good to have a gallop.”

“I like Woodcock,” said Susan, “and he’s quite a good jumper, you know.”

“Personally, I like a hot pony,” said Evelyn, “not a worn-out riding-school hireling.”

“Woodcock isn’t worn out,” said Susan furiously. “He’s jolly nice, and anyway Mrs. Maxton doesn’t let her horses out for hire.”

“Here’s Richard,” said Roger, glad to see him for once, and wishing Evelyn would keep her mouth shut. “Come on, Hilary, hadn’t we better get going?” Richard rode up, looking very disagreeable, and said to Roger in an angry undertone:

“I’m sorry I’ve brought Jill, but mummy made me, and now she’ll ruin everything, I suppose.”

“That’s all right,” said Roger, though at heart he didn’t think so. “She’s no worse than Marga and Jim, so she can keep with them.” Margaret gave him a furious look and said loudly: “I can jump three feet one and a half inches.” Hilary, who was standing beside her, said:

“Shut up, you little swank,” as quietly as she could. But evidently John heard her, for he grinned and winked, which made Marga angrier than ever.

“You’ll start in a quarter of an hour, then,” said Roger, deciding to ignore Margaret and mounting Sky Pilot, the black gelding, which Mrs. Radcliffe had given her three eldest children as a Christmas present.

“O.K.,” said John, looking at his watch, “it’s ten past ten now.”

“Cheerio!” said Hilary, mounting Northwind, and the hares rode off down the drive.

The hounds watched them in silence. Noel, who had the “needle,” though she repeatedly told herself that it was ridiculous to have it for a game, racked her brain for something to say. Then she and John both started to speak at once.

“Sorry,” said Noel. “Go on, you started first.”

“I was only going to say that they’d been five minutes,” said John. “What were you going to say?”

“I was only going to ask whether we are hunting in a pack, in pairs, or separately,” said Noel.

“Separately, of course,” said Evelyn firmly. “It’s a race, so if you can get ahead, you do.” There was another silence, then Richard said:

“I presume that if any one gets lost they make their way back here?”

“Either that or ring up,” said Evelyn, “otherwise we shan’t know whether to send out search parties or not.”

“Ten minutes,” said John.

“I’m simply frozen,” said Richard. “My feet are like blocks of ice. Can’t we start?”

“Of course not,” said Evelyn. “We’re supposed to wait a quarter of an hour.”

“Surely a few paltry minutes wouldn’t make much difference,” said Richard.

“ ‘Many a mickle makes a muckle,’ ” quoted Noel absent-mindedly, and then, realising, she blushed with embarrassment. Margaret giggled, and, after another pause, John said:

“Awfully bad luck for Dick getting ’flu, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, his mother said he was fearfully fed up,” said Evelyn.

“Fourteen minutes,” said John, “Are you ready? Go!”

Everyone swept down the drive at a brisk trot, with Margaret in the lead. They passed under the grey stone arch into the road, and there, on their right, was a thin trickle of sawdust. Evelyn let Romany, who was pulling, trot faster, and took the lead from Margaret. John rammed his bowler hat down and shortened his reins. Susan, mindful of Mrs. Maxton’s warnings, took Beauty on the grass verge; Noel and James followed her. Jill rode up beside Margaret and said:

“Shall we two keep together? Wendy’s much better if she’s with another pony.” Margaret looked at her disdainfully and said:

“I don’t mind as long as you keep up, but I’m not going to wait if you start refusing.” Evelyn flung open the five-barred gate leading into a large stubble field.

“Last through, shut the gate,” she shouted and, giving Romany her head, she galloped flat out beside the now wide line of sawdust. James was last through, but Susan and Noel, who had waited, shut the gate. As they galloped on after the others, Noel found, to her delight, that Rusty was fairly fast for a pony of his size. He held his own with Beauty, who was a couple of inches taller, and together they passed Wendy, Darkie and Pixie, and drew near to Dick Turpin and Peter, who were racing neck and neck. Suddenly John and Richard turned sharply to the left. The trail had turned, but Evelyn, in the lead, had been going too fast to notice. When she saw that the others were no longer following her and realised what had happened, she tugged Romany round and tore after them. Everyone was exhilarated by the gallop. John and Richard urged their ponies even faster in an effort to pass each other. Noel and Susan, galloping side by side, gave themselves entirely to the enjoyment of speed, and the feeling of the wind and the sting of the rain in their faces. James’ pleasure was slightly marred by the unnecessary strain of looking out for rabbit-holes. Margaret, already ahead of Jill, was enjoying herself thoroughly. Occasionally she gave vent to a hunting cry, partly as an outlet for her excitement, but mainly as an encouragement to Pixie to go faster still and catch up with Susan and Noel. In spite of Jill’s frenzied beating and kicking, Wendy, was dropping farther and farther behind the other ponies, and in a panic Jill saw herself deserted, lost, wandering aimlessly about the fields and, finally, a pathetic skeleton, after the style of the Babes in the Wood. Evelyn’s annoyance at losing her lead by forgetting to watch the trail soon evaporated as she felt Romany’s lengthening strides beneath her and saw the way in which she put every ounce into covering the distance between her and the rest of the ponies. She passed Wendy, flashed by James and Margaret, and inch by inch drew close to Rusty and Beauty. Just as she was level with them, the trail turned. It led along the hedgerow for a little way, and then over a bank and down into the road. They clattered across, and then pulled up to a walk as, with John, Richard and Evelyn in the lead, they followed the wet, yellow trail down the Nut-walk, a steep and narrow lane with a close hedge of nut trees on either side, which overhung so low that you had to lie on your pony’s neck to pass beneath.

“I bet Roger had a job to get down here on Sky Pilot,” said James.

“Can’t see why he had to go down such a beastly place,” grumbled Richard. “I’ve scratched my face all over.” Behind, Noel was hoping that Rusty wouldn’t slip, and telling herself not to be such a coward; and Susan was giving small shrieks as the branches whipped her face and clutched at her clothes. Suddenly there was a wail from Jill. “My saddle’s slipping. Whoa! Whoa!” she cried. “It’s right up her neck.”

“Get off and put it back,” said Evelyn, without bothering to stop or look round.

“I told you to tighten your girths,” said Richard, following Evelyn. Susan, who was just in front of Jill, stopped. “Jump off,” she said, seeing the saddle perched precariously on Wendy’s neck.

“I can’t, I can’t,” whined Jill. “It’s wobbling. I’m going to fall.” Susan dismounted and Noel, who was just ahead of her, took Beauty’s reins. With Susan at Wendy’s head, Jill managed to scramble off.

“You’d better lead her the rest of the way down,” said Susan, “and we’ll put it right at the bottom.”

“Come on,” said Noel, “we must hurry. The others have gone.” She gave Beauty to Susan, who led her until the Nut-walk came out into a huge downland field. There they put Wendy’s saddle back and Jill mounted. They could see Richard, Margaret and Evelyn, dim specks, fast disappearing in the distance, while John stood half-way across the field, an indecisive figure, torn between the thrill of the chase and a highly developed competitive spirit on the one hand and the obvious unfairness of deserting Susan and Noel on the other.

“Is your saddle O.K., James?” asked Noel as she mounted.

“Yes, thank you,” replied James.

“Come on, then,” said Susan, “we must catch them up.” They galloped towards John, who stood waiting.

“The others have gone towards Stark Dyke,” he shouted as they drew near, and, turning Turpin, he took the lead. Soon the ponies began to blow, and the children let them canter more slowly until they reached the brow of the hill, where they pulled up, and looked down on the dyke and the faint line of the Roman road in the valley below.

“That’s odd,” said John, scanning the view. “There’s no one in sight. Where can they have got to?”

“They must be in that wood, I should think,” said Noel.

“Perhaps they’re all hiding,” suggested Susan.

“There’s lots of sawdust down here,” said James excitedly. He was the only one who had remembered they were supposed to be following a trail and not the other people.

“Gosh, yes,” said John, riding over to him, “lashings of it. Come on.” And he started off down the side of the hill, where a precipitous track led round the edge of a chalk quarry. At the bottom the trail led over a small post and rails into the next field. Turpin jumped it beautifully, and, though John leaned back slightly, he didn’t catch his mouth; Beauty and Rusty followed, and then Wendy refused.

“Oh, gosh!” said John despairingly. Jill turned and rode at it again. Still Wendy refused.

“What about James giving you a lead?” suggested Susan.

“Look out, then,” said James. He rode at the jump, and Darkie cleared it easily, but Wendy refused again.

“Try a short run,” said Susan, but still she refused.

“Do you think one of us could get her over?” asked Noel.

“That’s not a bad idea,” said John. “You’d better try first; you look much the lightest.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll be able to get her over,” said Noel, instantly regretting her suggestion. “Still, I can try.” Jill dismounted and asked, “Shall I alter the stirrups?”

“Don’t bother,” replied Noel, “I’ll try without, first. Can I borrow your stick, please?” Jill handed it to her. Giving Wendy two hits, Noel turned her at the jump, and she was so surprised at being ridden in a determined manner that she jumped it straight away.

“Jolly good,” said John.

“Hurrah!” said James.

“Well done!” said Susan. Jill felt rather annoyed that Wendy should jump for Noel and not for herself, but still anything was better than being left refusing while everyone else disappeared into the distance. They both remounted and cantered on, following the trail across a couple of fields and into a wood. They were trotting down a broad ride, the thick, centuries-old carpet of leaves muffling their hoof-beats, when Susan pointed and said, “Look, there’s another trail leading off here.”

“A false scent, I expect,” said John. “By the hoof-marks, the others have gone this way.”

“Let’s go the other way, then,” said Noel, “because if they took the right one they’ll probably have caught the hares by now; but if by any chance they’ve taken the wrong trail, we might get there first.”

“Oh, yes,” said James, “that’s a very good idea. Besides, this trail is an awfully thin one; the others may not have noticed it.”

“Come on, then,” said John, “let’s get cracking.” And, leaving the path, they began to follow the smaller trail, which led through the undergrowth and twisted in and out of the sombre rhododendron bushes. They walked the ponies, which were all sweating, for some time, and then they trotted until they came to a pair of hurdles, which led into a ploughed field. James fell off over them, but he didn’t hurt himself, and while John caught Darkie, Noel mounted Wendy, who had had six refusals with Jill, and jumped her over second try. The trail led round the headland of the ploughed field and through a gap into the next one—a barren, untilled field, growing little else but stunted, gnarled thorn bushes and treacherous with rabbit-holes and mole-hills, through which the children gingerly picked their way, to find themselves on the deserted grass-grown track that had once been a busy Roman road.

Suddenly Jill said, “Look! There’s a fog coming up. Oh, what shall we do?”

“Gosh, yes,” said John as he looked round and realised with dismay that, while they had been so intent on the trail, the fog had been creeping up, minute by minute, until now the surrounding hills were completely blotted out.

“We shall be lost,” said Jill. “I know we shall.”

“Rot!” said John.

“I’ve got my compass,” said James, “though it doesn’t work very well.”

“Gosh, you’re efficient,” said Noel. “One generally forgets that sort of thing the only time one needs it.”

“I think the best thing we can do,” said John, “is to keep going, because if we manage to catch up with Roger and Hilary they’ll know the way home.” Realising the need for speed, he put Turpin into a canter. They cantered on and on. All five felt anxious as they watched the fog become thicker and thicker with each moment, but no one, except Jill, said anything. She sniffed continuously, and whined that she didn’t want to be lost, and have to sleep out in the dark and the fog at intervals. Soon they couldn’t see the trail, but no one remarked on it. They followed John along the Roman road at a trot in grim silence. Then Susan said, “Beauty seems awfully tired. Shall we get off and lead them for a bit?” They all dismounted, and Noel suggested, “Oughtn’t we to shout? Some of the others may be lost too.” So they shouted and made hunting cries as they walked along, which cheered them for a little, but when they had to stop, through hoarseness, the silence which fell seemed deeper, heavier, and more eerie than before. Noel felt as though she were captive in some ancient castle, manacled in a damp, dark dungeon, breathing fetid air and taming toads for companions. John spoke, more to break the stillness than for any other reason. “Has any one the faintest idea where this road comes out?” he asked. No one had.

“We’re heading due north-west,” said James.

“I’m hopeless about the way,” said Noel, “and I haven’t the slightest idea where due north-west will lead us. Have you, John?”

“None at all,” admitted John. “I’m completely off my bearings, but still a compass is jolly useful, you know; it prevents you from going round in circles, and if we keep going north-west long enough we’re dead certain to arrive somewhere some day.”

“I hope the others aren’t going round in circles,” said James. “They haven’t got a compass.”

When John had seen Noel and Susan stop to put Jill’s saddle back at the bottom of the Nut-walk, he had shouted to Evelyn and Richard, who were a few yards ahead of him, “Oughtn’t we to wait for them?”

“No, they’ll be all right,” Evelyn had answered. But at the top of the hill John’s conscience forced him to wait. Margaret soon pointed this out to Richard, who said, “Well, that’s his look-out. I’m blowed if I’m going to nursemaid Jill,” and had kicked Peter on faster than ever in an attempt to catch up with Evelyn, who was several lengths ahead. When they reached the wood, all three of them had been galloping too fast to notice the smaller trail leading off through the undergrowth; they had gone straight on, through a field and down a lane, until they had seen hats, which looked like Hilary’s and Roger’s, bobbing in the distance.

“There they are,” said Evelyn, who saw them first. “Now we can take a short cut.” She turned and rode Romany at a solid, three-feet-six post and rails into the next field. Romany refused. Evelyn hit her and rode at it again. This time Romany jumped, but she hit the top bar, which was firmly nailed, and nearly fell. Evelyn let her stand for a moment while she watched Richard and Margaret ride their ponies at the fence. They both refused.

“Oh, come on,” said Evelyn impatiently, “I don’t want to stand here watching you refuse.” They each had another unsuccessful try, and then, saying contemptuously, “Gosh, you’re feeble; I’m jolly well not going to wait; you’d better follow the trail,” she galloped off in the direction of the bobbing hats. The sight of Evelyn disappearing into the distance lent strength to Richard’s legs, and Peter, ridden really determinedly, cleared the timber easily. They galloped on, and Margaret was left. She tried everything she could think of to get Pixie over: short runs and long runs, showing her the fence, hitting, kicking and patting her, but Pixie simply said that it was much too high, and she wasn’t going to consider jumping it. In the end Margaret lost her temper. She beat Pixie, and called her all the insulting names she could think of, but it was no use. And when she had had thirty-nine refusals, Margaret reluctantly decided to follow the trail. Pixie, delighted to leave the horrible jump, tore along, neighing occasionally for the other ponies. They cantered down the lane and into another wood, where Margaret, who had all she could do to control Pixie and avoid the trees, suddenly found she had lost the trail. When she managed to pull up she retraced her steps, but somewhere she went wrong, and instead of finding the trail she came out on a heath, covered with gorse and bracken and intersected by a mass of small winding paths. Then she noticed the fog creeping up, and at the same time she realised that she was completely lost. “Oh, Pixie,” she said, “what on earth shall we do?” And she almost started to cry before she remembered that only feeble people—people like Jill Morrisson—cried when they were lost. She rode on until she came to a clearing. Five tiny paths led off in different directions. How Margaret wished for James and his compass. She stood in a quandary, unable to decide which path to take; they all looked exactly alike. Suddenly she thought, Perhaps Pixie knows the way home—perhaps she will be like a pony in a book. And, dropping the reins, she said, “Come on, old lady, take me home. Home, Pixie, home.” Pixie put down her head and grazed. “Oh, you are a horrid, beastly, greedy pony,” said Margaret tearfully as she wrenched it up. “The fog’s getting thicker than ever and I don’t want to stay out all night. I’m so cold and hungry.” And in spite of it only being feeble people who cry, she burst into tears. Pixie grazed for a few moments, then she turned and set off at a purposeful trot down the smallest and steepest of the little winding paths.

Evelyn had galloped away from the timber jump with the lightest of hearts. She was well in the lead, and, as she had sighted the hares, it could not be long before she caught up with them, which would just prove to Hilary and Roger how silly they were to make such a fuss about her riding Romany in preference to Mrs. Maxton’s lazy old Woodcock. Evelyn was glad that Hilary had won when they tossed up to decide who should ride Northwind, for, if she had won, she could not have said that he was dull and lazy, though he was when compared with Romany, family opinion was too strong when it came to criticisms of the ponies.

“You’re much the best of them, old lady,” said Evelyn impulsively as she leant forward and patted Romany’s sweat-soaked neck, marvelling that the pony was still pulling, though lathered from head to foot. When they reached the clump of trees near which Evelyn had seen the bobbing hats, she pulled up and looked about her. To her disappointment there was no one in sight.

“Oh, dash,” she said aloud, “where can they have got to?” She turned abruptly at the sound of hoofs behind her, to see Richard galloping up. “Hallo,” she said, “you got over, then?”

“Yes,” said Richard. “Where are they? Can you see them?”

“Do you think I’d be standing here if I could?” asked Evelyn disagreeably.

“All right, keep your hair on,” said Richard. “But I suppose that means we’ve lost them; that’s what comes of leaving the trail and trying to take short cuts.”

“Why didn’t you stick to the trail, then?” said Evelyn. “I never asked you to follow me; in fact I’d much rather you hadn’t.”

“Same here,” said Richard. “I don’t believe in following other people—especially girls—but I thought you probably had some inside information, since your family are both the promoters and the hares.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m cheating?” asked Evelyn in a dangerously quiet voice.

“No, I’m not suggesting anything,” said Richard, quite meekly. “Where do you suppose they’ve got to?” Evelyn didn’t bother to answer; she rode on at a trot; Richard followed. After about ten minutes, he said, “Don’t you think it would be a good plan to walk for a bit? I’ve got the most agonising stitch.”

“Gosh, you are a cissy,” said Evelyn, and she trotted faster than ever.

“Look at the fog coming up,” said Richard. “Now we’re going to get properly lost; that’s what comes of relying on girls.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Evelyn. “I’ve told you I don’t want you tagging round after me. Why the dickens don’t you go in another direction?”

“Because I don’t want to,” said Richard. “Crikey, this fog is getting thick,” he went on. “We shan’t be able to see a yard in front of our noses soon. Have you any idea where we are?” he asked, an anxious note creeping into his voice.

“None at all,” said Evelyn, enjoying his discomfort. “I should think we’re going round and round in circles.”

“I expect the others have caught the hares by now,” said Richard. “In fact they’re probably sitting comfortably at your place, waiting for us to turn up. Gosh, I’m cold. I wish I were sitting by a blazing fire having tea.”

“I doubt whether the others have found the hares,” said Evelyn. “I only hope they haven’t got too hopelessly lost.” It was then that Evelyn remembered her mother saying, “Oh, well, it’ll be quite all right if Evelyn’s a hound, as she’ll be able to keep an eye on Margaret and James.” Gosh, she thought, I hope nothing has happened to them. Marga’s alone, and goodness knows where Jim is. What will mummy say? Suddenly she noticed Richard was speaking. “Don’t you think so?” he said.

“Think what?” asked Evelyn.

“Oh, crikey,” said Richard, “are you deaf? I was asking if you thought it would be a good idea to shout in case the others are anywhere near.”

“I suppose we can try,” said Evelyn, “but I should think they’ve all fallen into chalk quarries by now.”

“I hope not,” said Richard. “What would mummy say if I turned up without Jill? Still, it’s not my fault. I said she’d never keep up, but mummy insisted she should come.”

“Why did we have a beastly paper-chase?” said Evelyn, her voice near breaking. “I’m sure something must have happened to the others.” They rode sorrowfully on, shouting into the impenetrable wall of fog at intervals.

“It’s getting thicker than ever, Hil,” said Roger, pulling Sky Pilot up and gazing into the fog. “I think we shall have to call it off; they won’t be able to see the trail in another ten minutes if it goes on coming up as fast as this.”

“Oh, dash it!” said Hilary. “Why does the weather always have to spoil everything? I suppose we’d better turn back and tell the others.”

“Yes, I think so,” said Roger, “and with any luck we’ll meet them before the fog blots out the trail completely.”

They turned their ponies and retraced their steps. They rode on, through the ever-thickening fog, and with each moment their forebodings grew. At last Hilary said, “Do you think anything’s happened to them? They ought to be here by now.”

“Heaven knows,” said Roger gloomily. “They’ll be hopelessly lost if they’ve missed the trail; but there’s just a chance they turned back earlier and have gone home.”

“Evelyn wouldn’t,” said Hilary with conviction.

“No, I suppose not,” said Roger. “She’s too jolly obstinate. Sssh, did you hear a shout?”

“No,” said Hilary, listening intently. “Yes, wait a minute. What was that?”

“Them, I think,” said Roger excitedly, and he gave a blood-curdling scream, which was meant to be a view-holloa. As it died away they both listened, and, to their delight, they heard an answering yell.

“It’s them all right,” said Hilary. “Come on.” And she broke into a trot.

“Wait a sec.,” said Roger. “It sounded more on our right to me; they may still be on the Roman road.”

“Probably they missed the trail where it turned off into Downley Wood,” said Hilary, “but we can’t go right back there. Shall we take a short cut across the fields and risk getting lost?”

“It’s the only thing to do,” said Roger, “and I think there’s a gate on the right in a minute; I noticed it on the way down.” They soon came upon the gate, and they were delighted to find a footpath, which led across the fields in the direction of the Roman road. They followed it as best they could, shouting as they went. Gradually the answering calls became louder, until they were separated from Noel, Susan, John, James and Jill only by a decrepit and broken-down hedge. Both parties were overjoyed to see each other, but this turned to dismay when they realised that Evelyn, Margaret and Richard were still missing.

“Oh, gosh,” said Roger dispiritedly, “you got parted, then?”

“Yes,” said John, “but they were so far on ahead, we felt sure they would catch you before the fog got really thick.”

“Where did you last see them?” asked Hilary.

“At the bottom of the Nut-walk,” said Noel. “We stopped to put Jill’s saddle back and they disappeared.”

“Which was the right trail in the wood?” asked James. “The thin one?”

“Which wood do you mean?” asked Roger.

“The one where the trails parted,” said James. “One went straight on and the other led to the Roman road.”

“They both led to the Roman road,” said Roger; “but the one that went straight on was a longer way round. Do you think they took that one?”

“Yes,” said James. “Their hoof-marks went that way.”

“Well, where in the dickens can they have got to?” said Roger, “for it only took me ten minutes longer than you, didn’t it, Hilary?”

“That’s right,” said Hilary. “But, of course, I didn’t hurry.”

“I think the best thing we can do,” said Roger, “is to try to find our way across the footpath and down Lindon’s Lane, where I laid the false trail. I should think they must be over that way somewhere, but if they’re not—well, we shall be on our way home.”

“We’ve got to find a way into your field, first,” said Susan.

“Yes,” said John, “and we can’t jump, because there’s a strand of barbed wire in the hedge.”

“There’s a post here that looks pretty rotten,” said Noel, who’d been investigating. It was rotten, and, when she and John both pushed, it broke off close to the ground. Then Roger and Hilary stood on the wire while the others led their ponies across, and afterwards propped up the post again before mounting and riding on. The ponies all seemed tired except for Sky Pilot; he was nervous and shied at gates, bushes and cows as they suddenly appeared out of the fog. The riders, who were cold, hungry and anxious, tried hard not to show it. They discussed all the pleasant things which might have befallen the three missing hounds, and the horrid possibilities, of which their minds were full, they kept to themselves. Every few minutes they all shouted together, and at last, when they were riding down Lindon’s Lane, Roger in the lead, they heard an answering call, very faint, but definitely an answer.

“There, that must be them,” said Hilary, as relief surged through everyone, for dead men cannot shout. They all felt inclined to hurry in the direction of the shout, but they were prevented by the fog, which seemed thicker than ever concentrated between the tall overgrown hedges of the lane.

“What about singing?” suggested John. “That might guide them to us.”

“ ‘Tipperary?’ ” asked Hilary. All seven of them sang with a will. They grinned at each other, and made as much noise as they could, so relieved were they at having found the rest of the hounds. When they had sung “Tipperary” twice, Susan suggested “Pack Up Your Troubles.” Then John wanted “Ten Green Bottles,” which was followed by “What shall we do with the drunken sailor?” to please James, and they were in the middle of the second verse of “John Peel” when there was a shout quite close, and in a few moments Evelyn and Richard were among them.

“But haven’t you got Marga?” asked Hilary in a horror-struck voice. “The others said she was with you.”

“She was,” said Evelyn, “but she got left behind in some beastly lane. We took a short cut, because we saw you, and, as she couldn’t get Pixie over the jump, she was going to follow the trail.”

“Oh, heavens!” said Roger. “This is the last straw. Never again will I organise anything. Where on earth can Marga have got to?”

“She’s awfully scatterbrained,” said Hilary. “She’s bound to have done something silly. We must find her. What will mummy say?”

“I’m sure she’s fallen into a chalk quarry,” said James, voicing everyone’s fears.

“Nonsense, Jim,” said Roger, trying to sound cheerful. “If it was you I’d be much more worried, because, in spite of your compass, you always get lost; but though Marga’s rash, she’s awfully good at finding the way.”

“It’s going to be the dickens of a job finding her,” said John. “What shall we do—divide up into parties?”

“Heaven forbid!” said Roger. “We shall all lose each other again. No one but Hilary and me knows the way home, do they?”

“No, I’m completely at sea,” said John.

“So am I,” said Noel.

“And me,” said Susan.

“We must do something,” said Evelyn. “We can’t just stand here.”

“I wish I’d lent Marga my compass,” said James.

“She wouldn’t have known how to work it if you had,” said Hilary.

“Personally,” said Richard suddenly, “I think we had better go back to your place, and, if she hasn’t got there first, we can call the police and have a proper search party.”

“Oh, yes,” said Jill. “Do let’s go home, I’m so cold.”

“Crikey!” muttered John.

“I’m not going home,” said Hilary. “We’ve got to find Marga.”

“Nor am I,” said James, giving Richard a challenging look.

“Wait a minute, though,” said Roger. “I’m not sure that Richard isn’t right. It’s a quarter to two,” he went on, braving the incredulous looks his sisters were giving him, “and by now the parents will have realised we must be lost; but they can’t search for us, because they don’t know where we were going, and the fog makes it so impossible. The best thing would be to ring up, but I should think the nearest telephone is the Cresswells’ and that’s at least three miles away. Then if we were to do as John suggested, search in parties, we’re bound to lose each other. Neither party will know if she’s been found, and meanwhile she’ll probably get home and turn everyone out to look for us.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Hilary slowly. “But I hate the thought of going, just in case she’s anywhere about. Couldn’t I stay, while you and Evelyn take the others home and collect a search party?”

“But quite honestly, Hil,” said Roger, “I don’t think she’s anywhere round here; she’d have heard our shouts if she was. She got quite a long start of us, you know. Then supposing she was home when we got there, everyone would have to turn out to look for you.”

“That’s true,” said Hilary. “I suppose it’s the only thing to do.”

“Come on, then,” said Richard impatiently, “let’s get going.” They rode on, speaking very little, but occasionally giving a view-holloa, just in case Margaret was about. At last they came out on the Basset-Fenchurch road, and they parted from the Morrissons at the lane which came out opposite Orchard Cottage. Roger apologised for the unpleasant time they had had, Richard replied that it wasn’t his fault, and Jill didn’t bother to answer. As they disappeared down the lane at a fast trot, John said, “Thank goodness we’ve got rid of them.”

“Yes,” said Susan. “To keep on grumbling like that, just because they were cold, when anything may have happened to Margaret.” Noel, who was riding beside her, made a face and muttered, “Shut up, you idiot.” There was a loud sniff from James, and Roger said, “We must be nearly at the Cresswells’ now. I think I’d better brave that ghastly woman and ring up mummy. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Hilary. “But I’ll go. I’m better at escaping than you, and anything to end this horrible suspense.”

“Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind,” said Roger.

“We’d better keep our eyes open,” said Hilary, “or we shall ride past. I’m sure the fog’s thicker here.” When they reached Dormers, Roger held Northwind while Hilary went in. She was quite a long time, it seemed ages to the others waiting in suspense, and when she came back every hope was dashed: Margaret hadn’t got home, she told them, and Mrs. Radcliffe was waiting for them to get back before she started to look for her in the car. They rode gloomily on. Roger dropped back beside Hilary and asked in a low voice, “What did mummy say? Was she very upset?”

“She was—rather,” said Hilary. “She was cross with Evelyn because she told her to keep an eye on Marga and Jim, but I kept her off that as much as I could, for we don’t want a row.”

When they reached the cross-roads where the Basset and Hogshill roads parted, Noel and Susan said good-bye, and that they hoped the Radcliffes would find Margaret waiting for them. Then they rode off together, for Noel had to drop Rusty at the Spinneys. But John insisted on going back to the Priory. He said he would leave Turpin with the Radcliffes’ ponies and help search, or, if Margaret had turned up, use Major Holbrooke’s drive as a short cut home. As they clattered up the Priory drive, a depleted party, with very different feelings to those they had started with that morning, they gave hunting cries to announce their arrival. Mrs. Radcliffe soon appeared, and the last vestige of hope was taken from them: there was still no sign of Margaret.

Drearily they settled the ponies: Darkie and North wind in the stable, Turpin in Pixie’s place between them, and Sky Pilot in the new portable loose-box. Romany was given a feed and turned out with Rocket, and then they hurried into the house, to find Mrs. Radcliffe answering the telephone. “That’s very kind of you,” she was saying. “I’ll start right away, but I expect it’ll take me some time, the fog is so terribly thick.” All the children forgot their manners and listened intently. “I believe it is,” said Roger. “Why else should she go out in the fog?” Evelyn began to jump about and say, “Hurray, hurray, I’m sure it is!” But the others told her to shut up, and pointed out that their mother wouldn’t be able to hear. At last she put down the receiver and said, “It’s all right, she’s turned up at Flinton-under-Fenchurch. That was Colonel Cagemore. He says he’ll keep Pixie for the night, as she seems dead beat, and we’re to fetch Margaret in the car.”

“Hurray!” said everyone.

“Thank goodness for that,” said Roger. “I’m absolutely fed up with looking. I’ll come with you, mummy,” he went on, “and then, if the fog’s very thick, I can stand on the running-board and guide you.”

“Well, I suppose I’d better go now,” said John in disappointed tones, “unless I can be of some use by standing on the other running-board.”

“You can’t possibly ride all the way home now, John,” said Mrs. Radcliffe. “Turpin must be exhausted. Look! if Pixie is staying with Colonel Cagemore, Turpin can keep her box for to-night, and if you’ll ring up your parents and tell them you’re O.K. I’ll run you home in the car when we’ve fetched Margaret.”

“That would be super,” said John. “Thanks awfully.”

“Let’s start,” said Evelyn.

“You’d all better have something to eat first,” said Mrs. Radcliffe. “You must be starving. I believe Mrs. Hunt is keeping your lunches hot.”

“Ugh,” said James, “I can’t eat lunch now; it’s nearly tea-time. Shall I ask Hunty for some cake?”

“Yes, go on, Jim; she likes you best,” said Roger.

Margaret was collected without any further adventures or mishaps, and was none the worse for her fright. She was found discussing polo with Colonel Cagemore, who had the reputation of being the most disagreeable man in Flinton-under-Fenchurch, a village well known for the taciturnity of its inhabitants.

On the day after the paper-chase, the hounds and hares all gave their ponies a well-earned rest and lay late in bed themselves. Colonel Cagemore telephoned the Radcliffes to tell them that Pixie was slightly lame, and would have to stay with him for another day or two. He was very agreeable, and said that, as he had only two of his own horses stabled at that moment, it would be good for his groom to have some more work. The Radcliffes thanked him several times, and then they discussed how they would hate to be his groom, and imitated him for some time before they rang up John and told him he need not fetch Turpin until next day.

On the next day, which was Friday, Mrs. Radcliffe went to London, and the children, who felt very bored now that the excitement of Christmas, hunting and the paper-chase was over, spent most of the morning quarrelling. In the afternoon John came for Turpin, and Hilary and Roger decided to ride back with him and see how Jet’s education compared with Rocket’s. Evelyn said she was going to give Romany a jumping lesson, and Margaret and James were occupied with some game of their own from which they were not disturbed, for, like most elder brothers and sisters, Roger, Hilary and Evelyn were quite glad not to be bothered by them for a change. The game was a soulless one, called “Motor Smashes,” in which the family collection of clockwork and other toy cars had the most sensational and nerve-wracking crashes up and down the long corridor, which ran right through the first floor of the Priory. Sometimes toy aeroplanes joined in, but, being of less stern stuff than the motors, they rarely survived more than two or three accidents. When this pastime, which was, to say the least of it, slightly monotonous, began to pall, Margaret and James decided to go to the paddock and see what Evelyn was doing. . . .

Since Romany had jumped the three-feet-six post and rails on the day of the paper-chase, Evelyn had been nursing a secret hope that she might become a first-class jumping pony, and surprise everyone by winning novice, or possibly, open classes, and perhaps, in the end, even aspire to Olympia.

Evelyn waited impatiently until the sounds of Sky Pilot’s, Turpin’s and Rocket’s hoof-beats had died away in the distance, and then, taking Romany to the paddock, she put all the jumps up to three feet six and mounted, filled with high hopes. Unfortunately, Romany, who had been made hotter than ever by the paper-chase, became half-crazy with fear and excitement at the sight of the jump. Snatching the reins out of Evelyn’s hands, she tore at it, much too fast, and then, her heart failing her at the last minute, refused dead. Evelyn almost shot over her head; but she quickly recovered her seat and, bitterly disappointed, she beat Romany, who galloped off round the field, her head between her knees. It took some time and a good deal of wrenching and jagging before Evelyn was able to pull Romany up; then, though she was dripping with sweat and blowing hard, Evelyn rode her at the jump again. This time she whipped round before she was within the wings, and, expecting another beating, shot off across the field. Evelyn tried again and again, and every time she got hotter and angrier, especially when she noticed that James and Margaret were watching from the gate. It took her nearly half an hour before she was able to force the—by that time—exhausted pony through the jump. Then, feeling very pleased with herself at having conquered this display of obstinacy, as she thought it, and hoping to put Margaret in her place, she called out, “Want a ride?” as she passed the gate. To her momentary dismay Margaret answered, “Yes, please,” and, leaping down, ran towards her. For a moment Evelyn contemplated telling Margaret that she hadn’t really meant it, but that, she decided, would make her more conceited than ever, for she would guess that she, Evelyn, had expected her to be afraid. She shrugged her shoulders and thought, it’s the little fool’s own look-out; she shouldn’t be always bothering me for rides.

Evelyn held Romany, who wouldn’t stand still, while Margaret mounted and altered her stirrups. Then Evelyn said, “Just ride her down to the end of the field and back; no farther, because I don’t want her spoilt.” Several rude replies occurred to Margaret, but she didn’t make them, because she wanted the ride, however short. Instead, she turned Romany, who shot straight off into a canter, increased her pace as she went down the field, swerved round the corner—luckily Margaret had a firm hold of her mane—and galloped back to the gate, flat out, stopping dead with a bounce at the last moment.

“She’s lovely,” said Margaret. “Awfully fast. Do you want a try, Jim?”

“No, thank you,” said James.

“You’re afraid,” said Margaret accusingly.

“I’m not,” said James, going red in the face.

“Why won’t you have a ride, then?” asked Margaret.

“ ’Cause I don’t want one,” replied James.

“Coward!” said Margaret.

“You shut up,” said James, clenching his fists and taking up a threatening attitude.

“Baby!” said Margaret, not in the least intimidated.

“Do leave him alone, Marga,” said Evelyn. “You know he’s nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” shouted James furiously.

“You are,” said Margaret. “You’re a nervous baby, just like Jill Morrisson.”

“All right, then,” said James. “I’ll ride her, just to show you.”

“Go on,” said Margaret, “I bet you daren’t.” Seizing the reins from Evelyn, James scrambled on Romany and gave her an angry kick, which made her tear off even faster than usual, shooting him up her neck. She galloped down the field and swerved round the corner, which unseated him still more. “Pull her up, you idiot,” shouted Evelyn, while Margaret, already repenting her rash dare, shouted, “Whoa, Romany, whoa!” But Romany, frightened by the shouting and James clinging round her neck, started to buck. Minus both stirrups and losing his head as he began to slip sideways, James, too, shouted, “Whoa!” in far from soothing accents. Terrified out of her wits, Romany galloped round the field at full speed, and then, in a last desperate attempt to rid herself of her horrid, clinging burden, she leaped the hedge, which was about four feet high. James fell off, and Romany galloped on, across the little paddock, through the open gate, into the stable yard.

As chance would have it, Dr. Radcliffe, who had returned home early, was walking towards the house, after putting the car away, when he heard shrieks of “Whoa!” and the sound of galloping hoofs. He ran to the paddock gate, and was just in time to see Romany jump the hedge and James fall off. Muttering several words he would not have allowed his children to use, Dr. Radcliffe ran across the field. At the same moment Evelyn and Margaret, who had been rooted to the spot, recovered the use of their legs, and they, too, ran towards James. Evelyn reached him first.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said James. “I think so, but my arm hurts.”

“Well, get up, then,” said Evelyn, and, seeing her father, she added, “Quick, Doc’s coming. Gosh, there’ll be a row.” James staggered to his feet and stood holding his arm as his father arrived on the scene.

“Are you all right, James?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” said James, looking distinctly green.

“What’s the matter with your arm?” asked Dr. Radcliffe anxiously.

“It’s all right,” said James firmly. But his father was not a doctor for nothing. “Let me have a look,” he said, and after a brief examination, “Um! Looks as though you’ve fractured it. We’d better go straight into Gunston and get it X-rayed.”

“No, no,” wailed James. “It’s all right, I tell you. I don’t want a beastly X-ray.”

“Now, don’t be silly,” said Dr. Radcliffe patiently. “X-rays are great fun. Don’t you want to see what your bones look like?”

“No, I don’t,” said James, starting to cry. The Doctor picked him up, carefully avoiding the broken arm, and walked briskly towards the house.

Romany, who was grazing in the little paddock, still wearing her saddle and bridle, tactlessly reminded everyone of the cause of the accident.

“Evelyn,” said Dr. Radcliffe, looking very stern, “I thought I told you that on no account were Margaret and James to ride that pony.”

“You said not until she was quiet,” said Evelyn.

“Which, as you know very well, she most certainly is not,” said Dr. Radcliffe.

“Well, Marga managed her all right,” said Evelyn. “I should think she’s as quiet as she’s ever likely to be. It was Jim’s own fault for shrieking.”

“I didn’t shriek,” protested James weakly. “I only said ‘whoa’ when she wouldn’t stop.”

“You didn’t,” said Evelyn, “you screamed.”

“All right,” said Dr. Radcliffe, “we’ll discuss that later. Margaret, you catch that pony before she breaks her reins; and Evelyn, run indoors and fetch a couple of cushions and a large silk handkerchief from the top right-hand drawer of my tallboy.” Evelyn and Margaret hurried off, and the Doctor handed James over to Mrs. Hunt while he got the car out. Then, with his arm in a sling and Evelyn beside him in case he felt queer or fainted, James was propped up with cushions and the Doctor drove briskly to Gunston.

When Hilary and Roger arrived home, just before tea-time, they were surprised not to find either their sisters or brother about, but, after they had made a few hunting noises, Margaret appeared from the hayloft, where she had obviously been crying, and said that Jim had fractured his arm and Doc. had taken him to hospital. Of course, Roger and Hilary wanted to know how it had happened, and, when Margaret told them, they both said Evelyn must be absolutely half-witted and that there would be a fearful row. They talked about the row for a few minutes until Margaret, who thought they were perfectly beastly to bother about the row Evelyn would get into, when anything might be happening to James, could bear it no longer. “What will they do to him?” she blurted out. “Will they cut it off?”

“Who? Cut what off?” asked Roger in surprise.

“Jim,” she said, bursting into a flood of tears. “Jim’s arm, of course.”

“Good heavens, no,” said Roger. “You said it was a fracture, didn’t you?”

“Yes, that’s what Doc. said,” answered Margaret.

“That’s only a sort of break,” said Hilary. “You didn’t think they’d cut his arm off, did you?”

“He’ll have to have it in plaster for about six weeks,” said Roger, “and then it’ll be O.K. It wasn’t a compound fracture, I suppose?” he added on second thoughts.

“What’s that?” asked Margaret.

“The bones stick out,” said Roger.

“Ugh!” said Margaret. “Jim’s bones didn’t stick out, anyway.”

“It won’t be a very long job, then,” said Roger.

“Oh,” said Margaret, cheering up instantly. “I thought it was much worse than that. Do you think Doc. will be very angry?”

“Livid, I should think,” said Roger, “and I can’t say I blame him. I mean, it was an idiotic thing to do. But I can’t imagine why Jim wanted to ride Romany. It’s not the sort of thing you’d expect from him; he’s always been a bit nervous.”

“But that’s why he did it,” said Margaret. “You see, we told him he was nervous, but he said he wasn’t, and he rode Romany to prove it.”

“I expect you’ve made him a hundred times worse now,” said Hilary. “Probably he’ll never want to mount a pony again. Why on earth couldn’t you leave him alone?”

“Well, he’s so silly and nervous,” said Margaret; “and if we don’t cure him he’ll grow up an awful coward and baby, and he’ll be a simply hopeless sailor.”

“You’re quoting Evelyn,” said Roger, “and she doesn’t know the first thing about it. Just because she has no nerves herself she thinks everyone else is cowardly. But, after all, there’s nothing brave in doing a thing if you’re not frightened. It’s being frightened and still doing the thing that counts.”

“But Jim doesn’t do it,” objected Margaret. “He says, ‘No, thank you,’ and doesn’t do it.”

“He’s been getting much better lately,” said Hilary. “He was growing out of it, as mummy and Doc. always said he would.”

“I expect he’ll be quite hopeless after this,” said Roger gloomily.

As Hilary and Roger had anticipated, there was a row that evening. When James, his arm encased in plaster, had been put to bed, and Mrs. Radcliffe, back from London, had had the whole business explained to her, the Doctor announced that, as Evelyn was obviously unfit to be entrusted with a young pony, Romany was to be returned to Major Holbrooke next day. Evelyn, white to the lips, said that her father couldn’t send Romany back; she wasn’t his pony; he had said that she could have her, and it wasn’t her fault that Jim was such a baby. Dr. Radcliffe said that he had definitely forbidden both Margaret and James to ride Rocket and Romany, and Evelyn had agreed to this condition before she had the pony. Yet she had been there, and allowed, if not even encouraged, it; though why was entirely beyond his comprehension, as obviously they might easily spoil the pony, and, as far as he could see, she did not benefit at all, unless she derived any pleasure from breaking one of the remarkably few rules her parents had made. James, the Doctor had gone on, was punished, for he would not be able to ride for several weeks, and Romany going back would put an end to all further temptation. Evelyn said that she had only been trying to prevent James growing up a coward; a remark which annoyed the Doctor, who replied that he and her mother were quite capable of bringing up their family without Evelyn’s assistance; and, anyway, he hardly thought it fair on Major Holbrooke to train one’s brother at the expense of his pony. He had, he went on to say, already arranged with Coles of Folly Farm for Romany to be turned out there until the Major, to whom he would write that night, came home. Evelyn stormed, argued, and in the end cried, but all in vain. The Doctor stood firm, and when Roger and Hilary, who thought the punishment much too hard, joined in the argument, they were told to mind their own business. Then Margaret pointed out that it was her fault; she had called James a coward and dared him to ride Romany, not Evelyn. But the Doctor, though agreeing that Margaret had caused the broken arm and behaved in an extremely foolish, thoughtless, and even dangerous way, since James might easily have had a worse accident, said that this was no excuse for Evelyn. She had allowed a childish squabble to persuade her to disobey her parents’ most definite instructions, and had thus proved herself unfit to be in charge of a young pony. Romany, he had ended, was to be taken to Folly Farm next morning, and as he saw no reason why Margaret should go unscathed, she was not to ride again for the rest of the Christmas holidays.

The snow had fallen heavily all night, and now the sun shone with dazzling brilliance on the distant snow peaks, still rosy with the last lingering light of dawn.

Below, in the valley, the little Hotel des Alpes looked smaller and more insignificant than ever—its white walls were dingy against the virgin snow, but its bright green shutters and doors were a welcome relief from the otherwise universal whiteness.

The forest, usually dark and menacing, had a tame, Christmas-cake-like appearance, decided Major Holbrooke as he stood in his dressing-gown at his hotel bedroom window admiring the view. But probably, he thought, it wouldn’t seem tame if one was nearer. He imagined the animals and birds struggling for survival, and the trees groaning under their heavy burdens of snow.

Switzerland was a fascinating country, decided the Major, especially now, for, with Roland on the mend, one had both the heart and the time to enjoy it. But Folly Court in the spring-time was very hard to beat, and as he and his wife had been called away so unexpectedly, they had had to leave a great many things undone. The Major turned regretfully from the window to drink his coffee and open his large pile of letters. The top one was from Dr. Radcliffe, and, recognising the small precise handwriting, the Major knew it for a bearer of bad news. He opened it with a sigh and read it, frowning impatiently. Then, handing it to Mrs. Holbrooke, he said rather bitterly, “Here’s the first one; the modern generation seems to be incapable of managing its ponies without the aid of a full-time nurse-maid.” Mrs. Holbrooke read the letter in silence, then she said, “Well, the other child doesn’t seem to be doing too badly, though personally I always thought the Radcliffes much too wild and noisy for breaking ponies; anyway, it’s a good thing we shall be home for the Easter holidays. . . .”

Chapter VII

IT WAS the first day of the Easter holidays. All along the roadside tender blades of grass were thrusting their way through the ancient turf to bask in the sunshine, little dreaming of the day when they would be sordid and gritty; above, gay young clouds chased each other through the blue sunlit sky, and in the trees the birds sang because they wanted to, and not from a sense of duty. But Noel, riding Rusty back to the Spinneys, was heavy at heart, for Simon Wentwood was coming home, and after to-day she would have no pony to ride. In the Christmas holidays it hadn’t seemed so hard, for alternate frost, rain and snow had made the ground slippery, and forced Noel to be content with indoor amusements; but now the perfect weather of an early spring—the best time of all for riding—and the prospect of Pony Club rallies made giving up Rusty a heavy blow, quite apart from the fact that she had grown fonder of him than ever. Susan was very kind, and would, Noel knew, let her ride Beauty, but that was far from being the same thing as having a pony lent one for the whole term and being allowed to keep him at home. Still, she decided, there was no point in grumbling; she only hoped Simon would improve his riding, and try to jump Rusty decently at the Pony Club.

When she had turned Rusty out in his field and thanked Mrs. Wentwood for the loan of him, Noel crossed the road to speak to Romany, who was turned out in one of the Folly Farm fields opposite the Spinneys.

Everyone had heard about James Radcliffe’s arm, and John Manners had told Noel, one day when they met in Brampton, that James had broken it falling off Romany, but no one seemed to know exactly how it had happened, or why she had been sent back to the Major. When Romany saw Noel, she whinnied and trotted across the field, for she found it very dull turned out alone, without even a cow to talk to.

“I wish I could have you,” Noel told her. “But I’m such a hopeless rider that I wouldn’t even dare ask the Major. Besides, it would sound awfully conceited to suggest that I could manage you when Evelyn, who is miles a better rider, has had to send you back. All the same, I would love to try.” Unfortunately Romany couldn’t explain what had happened, so she just nuzzled Noel and accepted a few oats and crumbs, which she found in her pockets. Dusk was falling when at last Noel managed to tear herself away, and she was very late for tea.

None of the horse-breakers was very pleased when, on the first Saturday of the holidays, they each received a postcard from Major Holbrooke asking them to bring their ponies to Folly Court at ten o’clock on the following Saturday for an instructional rally.

Susan had Beauty saddled at once, and rode over to Russet Cottage to tell Noel. Beauty was fresher than usual; her strides longer and more springy; her clean-cut ears were pricked, and her eyes full of the joy of living as she gazed around her at the countryside. Each bush, field and tree had cast aside its fustian winter garments, and was wearing instead fresh, fashionable young leaves of every shade of green and yellow. Susan had no eyes for the scenery; she was thinking of the rally, wondering how Sunset would behave, and if the other ponies would be better schooled.

Noel was very pessimistic. She said that Sunset didn’t know half as much now as Grey Dawn had at the beginning of the Christmas holidays, and she thought all the ponies would look completely unschooled beside her, except, perhaps, Rocket Radcliffe, who, John Manners had told her, was “pretty good.” Susan, thrown into the depths of despair, begged Noel to go to the Towers on Monday afternoon and help her school, and also offered to lend her Beauty to ride at the rally. Noel accepted the invitation for Monday, but she said she was sure that Major Holbrooke wouldn’t want her to go to the rally when she wasn’t one of the horse-breakers. Susan said that Noel always made a fuss about going to rallies, and she believed that she was really frightfully conceited—much worse than June—and thought she had nothing to learn. Noel, who knew that Susan was only joking, said that she was quite right; she knew everything about horsemanship from A to Z, much more, in fact, than Major Holbrooke. But in the end Susan persuaded her by saying that it would take hours to ride Sunset to Folly Court alone, as she would dawdle and shy the whole way.

Richard was thrown into a frenzy by his postcard. He suddenly realised that Rufus was still unshod, and had never yet been ridden without someone leading him. Sitting at breakfast, a spoonful of patent, energy-filled cereals poised in mid air, Richard wondered what on earth he could do. Mrs. Morrisson looked up from her own dull letter to ask whom his was from.

“Major Holbrooke, the old bore,” Richard replied. “What does he want to start stirring things up for? I thought he was going to be away for ages.”

“But you know you like Pony Club rallies, darling,” said Mrs. Morrisson. “You ought to be pleased he’s back. What does he say?”

“Just: ‘I should be very glad if you could bring Rufus here on Saturday the ninth at ten o’clock for an instructional rally.’ That means a lot of fuss and criticism for everyone, except his dear little June, who, of course, will do everything perfectly,” said Richard, a bitter note in his voice.

“Well, you must train the pony a bit more,” said Mrs. Morrisson. “You really ought to be able to put up a better show against that Cresswell girl. I’m sick and tired of having her mother crowing over me at every gymkhana or rally I go to.”

“It’s easy to say that,” said Richard, “but how can I beat her? To start with, she’s got the best pony; we all wanted the grey, but I suppose the Major wangled it for her somehow.”

“Oh, Richard,” said Jill, “you know he wouldn’t do that, even if she is his favourite.”

“I don’t know so much about that,” said Richard. “It was a queer coincidence, anyway. To go on with, she doesn’t have to go to a boarding school, so she can train her wretched pony every day, and I bet her mother helps her. It’s not fair,” he went on, becoming more indignant as he thought about it. “Rufus can’t do anything yet, and I don’t see why I should make a fool of myself in front of all those conceited asses. I’m blowed if I’m going, and I don’t care what old Holbrooke says.”

“No, I should think you’d better not, if you’re going to make an utter fool of yourself,” said Mrs. Morrisson. “But are you sure you can’t train the pony in time?”

“How can I,” said Richard, raising his voice, “with no one but Jill to help me? I tell you the wretched animal knows nothing—literally nothing.”

“Don’t shout at me like that, Richard,” said Mrs. Morrisson sharply. “It’s entirely your own fault for not riding the pony more last holidays. I wish we’d never said you could have it; it has caused nothing but trouble. Never again will I consent to anything of the sort. If the pony is as hopeless as you say it is,” she went on, “you’d better write a note to Major Holbrooke and say you are very sorry, but you have an appointment at the dentist’s on that day, and meanwhile, if you don’t settle down and train the animal seriously, I’ll speak to your father and he’ll send it back.” Richard would have liked to be rude, but after all, he thought, his mother had suggested a way out; so he confined himself to scraping back his chair and throwing his napkin on the floor, two things which he knew annoyed her, and saying, “All right, I’ll write to the old bore, and then I’ll try to knock some sense into that wretched pony,” he marched out of the room, banging the door. . . .

“Look at this, Mummy,” said June, handing her mother Major Holbrooke’s postcard, “I don’t want to go. He’ll be teaching the others how to make their ponies walk and trot and I shall have to stand about doing nothing. I think it’s mean,” she went on, “the way he always does everything to suit the worst people. If he taught the best, the others might see how bad they are and then they’d either give up or improve.”

“Yes, it does seem a shame,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “You’d think he’d take more trouble with the best ones—the ones that would do him most credit—instead of wasting time on the duds. Of course, I see your point of view, my pet,” she went on. “It’s no fun for you to stand about watching a crowd of beginners spoiling those promising young ponies; you won’t learn anything new. But what do you want to do? Wait a bit and hope the others get on?”

“I can’t see much good in doing that,” said June. “I should think Grey Dawn knows more now than the Major will have taught the others by the summer holidays, so I don’t see why I should waste my time going to the dull old rallies. Supposing I just go to the gymkhana or the test he said he was going to have to decide which is the best schooled pony before they go back to his cousin?”

“It would be nice to show that you could do it all without the Major’s help,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “But I’m afraid he has the right to insist on you taking Dawn to the rallies, for, though he must know that you wouldn’t be spoiling the pony, he would be failing his cousin if he didn’t keep an eye on all of them.”

“Well, I suppose if I have to, I might go to some of the later rallies when there may be jumping,” said June. “But this one is sure to be dull and I’m not going. Do think of an excuse, Mummy.”

“Well, dear,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “we could say you had an appointment at the dentist’s. . . .”

Hilary Radcliffe found her postcard awaiting her on the breakfast table. She picked it up with a feeling of curiosity, but one glance told her what it was, and she quickly stuffed it into her riding-coat pocket, though not before Margaret’s sharp eyes had seen it.

“Who is your postcard from, Hilary?” she asked.

“Really, Margaret,” said Mrs. Radcliffe, “you mustn’t be so inquisitive. It’s Hilary’s letter, and she’d tell you if she wanted you to know. Besides, what will happen when she and Evelyn grow up and begin having young men and love affairs? It’ll be awfully embarrassing for them if you start cross-questioning them on their letters.”

“Well, I always let Hilary read my letters,” said Margaret, “and I think she might let me read hers. They can’t be from young men yet.”

“Oh, do shut up, Marga,” said Roger. “You’ll be asking to read my letters from people at school next. How can you be so uncivilised?”

“I’m not uncivilised,” said Margaret. “It’s Hilary.”

“Gosh,” said Roger, in a voice filled with scorn, “you’re just like a person at a prep. school.”

“I’m not,” said Margaret. But no one took any notice: they had started to discuss the plans for Dr. Radcliffe’s birthday, which was next day.

After breakfast Hilary went to the Prior’s room to look for her mother; instead, she found Roger.

“Hallo,” she said, “where’s mummy?”

“Still discussing Doc.’s birthday dinner with Hunty, I expect,” said Roger.

“Look,” said Hilary, handing him her postcard, “I suppose you guessed whom it was from.”

“Yes,” said Roger, “it was pretty obvious, for I didn’t believe in mummy’s young men.”

“I don’t want to go,” said Hilary as he finished reading it. “I know it won’t be any fun, but I can’t think what to say; I must give a reason.”

“I think you ought to go,” said Roger, balancing himself precariously on the fender, his back to the small wood fire. “After all, there is Rocket to consider.”

“Yes, but it’ll be beastly,” said Hilary. “I mean, one can’t mention Rocket, much less Major Holbrooke, now, without a ghastly silence, so what will it be like if I’m going to a rally?”

“But you can’t let that put you off,” said Roger. “That’s not your fault, you know, and the others are jolly selfish if they’re trying to drag you into that old row. Anyway, it ought to have blown over by now. I was most surprised when I came home these holidays and found Evelyn was still sulking.”

“She’s not sulking,” said Hilary. “But no one likes to have their pony sent back, and, if I do go to the rally, what am I to tell everyone?”

“If they are tactless enough to mention the subject, they deserve to be told to mind their own business,” said Roger firmly; “but I don’t think they will, except perhaps June Cresswell.”

“What has that poor despised creature done now?” asked Mrs. Radcliffe as she came into the room.

“It’s not what she’s done, but what she might do,” said Roger.

“Look,” said Hilary, handing her mother the postcard.

“Don’t you think she ought to go, Mummy?” asked Roger.

“Of course she must,” said Mrs. Radcliffe. “But don’t you want to, Hilary?”

“No,” said Hilary. “It won’t be any fun without Evelyn, but I can’t think of an excuse.”

“Now you mustn’t be silly about it,” said Mrs. Radcliffe, sitting down on one of her elegant Sheraton chairs and lighting a cigarette. “I know it’s tiresome about Evelyn, but we can’t help that, and, even if you are twins, you mustn’t become inseparable. Think how awkward it will be if one of you marries.”

“What is the matter with you to-day, Mummy?” asked Roger. “You do nothing but talk about young men, love affairs, and getting married. Are you going to restore the family fortunes by forcing Hilary and Evelyn to make convenient marriages?”

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Radcliffe. “I’m going to marry them both to enormously fat stockbrokers, old enough to be their fathers. But seriously, Hilary,” she went on, “you can’t give up schooling Rocket now; it wouldn’t be fair to him or Major Holbrooke. Besides, it’s not as bad for Evelyn as you seem to think. She’s not so interested in breaking and schooling as you are, and it’s obvious, though I don’t know much about riding, that while she is much the best of you at jumping unwilling ponies over impossible heights, or forcing nappy ones to go where she wishes, she’s too impatient, noisy, and abrupt in her movements to be good with young or nervous ponies. Except for the blow to her pride,” Mrs. Radcliffe went on, “I don’t think she feels the loss of Romany as much as you think, and I’m sure she doesn’t feel anything like you would over Rocket.”

“Besides, Hil,” said Roger, “I’m positive that you’re the only person who can beat June Cresswell. Rocket is well ahead of Jet, and the Barington-Brown and Richard are certain to be miles behind John.”

“I wish you children hadn’t caught this dreadful competitive spirit,” said Mrs. Radcliffe. “It’s all you seem to learn at school nowadays. After all, what does it matter if June wins? It won’t alter the fate of nations, and I expect it gives her a good deal more pleasure than it would any of you. Why can’t you say, ‘I strove with none, for none was worth my strife,’ like Walter Savage Landor?”

“You and Doc. will grumble if I say that when I take school cert.,” said Roger with a laugh.

“But that is quite different,” said Mrs. Radcliffe. “You won’t be trying to win anything, or beat any one; you’ll just be trying, I hope, to pass as well as you can.”

“It’s only because June is so beastly conceited,” said Hilary. “She needs beating, just to show her she’s not so good as she thinks she is.”

“Yes, she is irritating,” agreed Mrs. Radcliffe. “But you can’t blame her; it’s her mother’s fault. Anyway, you mind out that you don’t become winning children. I’m sure Margaret is going to—she rides much too well for her age.”

“Well, at least she hasn’t got a show pony,” said Roger, “and we’re all pretty good at squashing people. You will go, won’t you, Hil?” he went on. “You’ve simply got to uphold the honour of the Radcliffes. I’d come with you as moral support and to squash June, but it’s the day Doc.’s promised to take me to that experimental place at Long Langton, and I can’t miss that, any more than you can give up learning about breaking and schooling from Georgie Holbrooke, or we’ll never be famous.”

“ ‘And lust of fame was but a dream that vanished with the morn,’ ” quoted Mrs. Radcliffe absentmindedly. . . .

“Letter for you, John,” said Colonel Manners when John came into the sunny, oak-panelled dining-room on Saturday morning. “Can’t you ever be in time for breakfast?” the Colonel added angrily, rustling the paper, which was full of the iniquities of the Government. “I know times have changed—changed for the worst—but this house isn’t a hotel, and I expect punctuality.”

“Sorry,” muttered John sulkily, as he helped himself to porridge, and then, sitting down, he read his postcard between the mouthfuls. Only a week, he thought. I shall never catch June Cresswell up in that time. This morning he would take Jet to the forge and then lunge her; tomorrow, he decided, he would go out for a ride and that would leave five days for schooling. He sighed despairingly. He knew Jet would seem untrained beside Rocket and Grey Dawn. Looking up, he found his parents eyeing him curiously.

“It’s from Major Holbrooke,” he explained. “About a Pony Club ‘do’ next Saturday for the young ponies. I wish it wasn’t so soon. I shan’t have much time to get Jet in practice again.”

“Huh,” said Colonel Manners, “Holbrooke’s back, is he? I shall have to go up and see him. There’s that new type of tractor I wanted to ask him about, and I must find out if he still wants the rick of mixture hay we made from the Bottom field last year.”

“How is little Jet?” asked Mrs. Manners, trying to take an interest. “You haven’t ridden her yet these hols, have you, darling?”

“No,” said John, “I’ve got to get her shod first. By the way, Mum, must you call them hols? It sounds so awfully prep. school. . . .”

Wherever one went round Brampton for the rest of that week one would have found people schooling ponies.

Susan, who had so often put off riding Sunset during the Christmas holidays and spring term, when the days were short and cold, now regretted it. She knew that she couldn’t possibly teach her all Dawn knew in seven days, and she wished she had taken her father’s advice, which was never to ride Beauty until she had given Sunset her lesson. When Susan told her parents that her postcard was from Major Holbrooke, Mr. Barington-Brown said that now she’d catch it. She’d have the Major after her, when Sunset turned out to be the worst-trained pony of the lot. Susan had to have somewhere to lay the blame, so she said that no one could possibly school a pony in the park; it was too full of trees and bracken, not to mention rabbit-holes and molehills. To her surprise, her father said he would make a bargain with her: If she would agree to school Sunset regularly, at least five days a week in the holidays, he would fix it with Hodges, the farmer who rented all his land but the park, that she should have the big flat field by the stables, and he’d tell Bob to mark out a school and put up some jumps. Of course Susan, who was delighted, readily agreed to her side of the bargain, and when Noel arrived at the Towers on Monday she was surprised to find a school neatly marked out by short white posts, while Bob and the other gardener’s boy were giving the finishing touches to four little jumps. Susan, who had caught, groomed, and saddled both the ponies so that the jumps might be finished, was delighted to see Noel’s surprise. She said that now they would be able to give June Cresswell a show, and that she hoped Noel agreed that her jumps were much smarter than June’s. Noel said she thought the jumps were lovely, but that she didn’t think that Sunset would put up a very good show—she wouldn’t be surprised if she had even forgotten how to make turns on the forehand. Noel wasn’t usually so squashing, but lately she seemed to find Susan rather irritating; it was mainly envy, she supposed, but it did seem unfair that Susan should have two lovely ponies when she was too lazy to school them properly. Still, thought Noel, she is awfully generous, and she is always inviting me to ride Beauty. Besides, it’s probably very dull when your mother and sister won’t take any interest, but only argue over soulless things like curtains and furniture. So when Susan suggested having an equitation test, Noel didn’t say that she thought they ought to school seriously, she agreed and won easily on Beauty, who was really extremely well trained.

Sunset, as Noel expected, had forgotten everything: she dawdled at the walk, trotted much too fast, with her head low, and couldn’t halt, back-rein or turn on the forehand. Even Susan, who generally thought Sunset went rather well, was disheartened, and at the end of the equitation test she said, “What about having some races—at the trot, of course?”

“Don’t you think we ought to school seriously?” asked Noel, who really thought that this was a bit too much. “Sunset must be able to pull up and make turns by Saturday.”

“Yes, I suppose we ought,” said Susan with a sigh. “But it’s awfully dull, and surely we can invent some races with a lot of twisting and turning in them to make her more handy.”

“The experts seem to think schooling is better,” said Noel. “I mean, one never hears of people training horses by trotting races. Anyway, Sunset trots much too fast now, so I should think it would be definitely bad for her.”

“Oh, dear,” said Susan, “I suppose we’ll have to school then, but I’ve forgotten the aids for the turn on the forehand.”

Noel felt impatient with Susan. She thought, you simply don’t try to remember; you know I’ll tell you; but I’m jolly well not going to. Aloud she said, “Your book is on the gate, and the turns are at the beginning of chapter three.”

“Oh, I can’t be bothered to get off and look it up,” said Susan. “Do tell me, Noel; I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.”

“Lateral aids,” said Noel, relenting. “The rein and leg on the same side.”

“Oh, yes,” said Susan. “Now I remember. I am silly. I know I shall never be a good rider.”

“Don’t be idiotic,” said Noel. “Of course you will; at any rate you’re much more likely to than me.”

“What nonsense,” said Susan. “If you rode as often as I do, you’d be as good as June Cresswell.”

“That’s a hypothesis,” said Noel; “and I know perfectly well that, even if I live to be a hundred, I shall never be able to ride like her. But come on, we must school.”

“Grey Dawn is sure to be first,” said Susan, “but I wonder which’ll be second.”

“Not Sunset, at this rate,” said Noel tartly. “Probably Hilary Radcliffe’s Rocket, I should think.”

“Why?” asked Susan.

“I don’t know,” said Noel reflectively. “Hilary’s always struck me as being a good rider, that’s all.”

“Yes, but we thought Evelyn was a good rider,” said Susan, “and she’s had to give up.”

“We don’t know why,” said Noel. “It may not have been her riding.”

“Well, I think John will be second,” said Susan, “and I hope Richard is last.”

“He never talks about Rufus,” said Noel. “So perhaps he’s marvellous, and Richard is keeping it a secret so that he can give everyone, including June, a terrific surprise.”

“I hope not,” said Susan, “because, then, Sunset will be the worst of all.”

“You are a defeatist,” said Noel. “But for goodness’ sake let’s get on with the schooling.”

John thought over his schooling programme while he held Jet at the forge. To his annoyance, she was just as nervous as she had been the first time she was shod; the smoke especially seemed to frighten her. In the moments when she was reasonably quiet, John decided that he would have to give up driving the tractor and getting up late if he was going to give Jet at least one hour’s schooling, as well as riding Turpin, every day. He had, he thought, so many things to do: Pat, the Labrador’s five puppies, and his ferrets—Slink and Sly—to feed and exercise, as well as the hens and ducks and their families, which he was supposed to look after in the holidays. Still, it was worth while getting up early to beat June Cresswell. But he was going to have a job to catch up with Rocket, and he thought the best he could come would be third, unless the Major handicapped the people who could ride in the term. . . .

Richard enlisted the help of Clayton, the jobbing gardener, on the three days a week when he worked at Orchard Cottage, and, while he held Rufus down, Richard rode him round and round the hen-run. Clayton, who was very dark, and locally supposed to be descended from gipsies, had one theory on the treatment of animals, and that was, to show them “ ’oo was master.” This meant that if Rufus dared to look about him he received a savage jag in the mouth, and each time he tried to puzzle out an unusual order a blow on the nose was his reward for not obeying quicker. After three days of Clayton’s help Richard rode Rufus, with only Jill near-by, in case he started to buck. But he was too cowed to play up; he just walked sorrowfully round the hen-run, his head low and his eyes dull and sad. On Friday Richard took him to be shod.

By Friday, Susan, with Noel’s help, had retaught Sunset all the things she had learned before, but forgotten: to walk fast, trot slowly, canter round the field on the appropriate leg, to back-rein, turn on the forehand, and jump one foot six quietly. They didn’t ask her to canter round the school, because the author of Susan’s book wrote that you should never make your young horse canter slowly, or in a confined space, until he was really well balanced at the trot, for there was a distinct danger of forcing him behind the bit and shortening his stride.

John, too, found that his pony had forgotten most of what she had learned in the Christmas holidays. The first day that he had schooled Jet he had lost his temper because she wouldn’t back-rein. He had beaten her furiously, which, as might be expected, had upset and muddled her more, and it wasn’t until John cooled down and thought of making her face a hedge, as Major Holbrooke had told them to do when they first taught the ponies, that she remembered what the aids meant, then she backed perfectly. On the whole John was most pleased with Jet’s jumping. He began with a pole on the ground and raised it daily, until by Friday she was jumping two feet perfectly, and it was only by great strength of mind that he prevented himself from raising the jump another six inches.

At first, Hilary had slunk guiltily away by herself to school Rocket, but when Roger discovered this, he decided that he wasn’t going to have another holiday spoilt by Romany lurking, an unmentionable skeleton, in the stable cupboard, and he said at lunch that, if Hilary intended to school Rocket that afternoon, he would join her on Sky Pilot, who, he said quite truthfully, was getting a bit slack about obeying the aids. Mrs. Radcliffe tactfully suggested that all the ponies needed to brush up their manners, and pointed out that Rocket ought to get used to being ridden with a crowd, if he wasn’t to be upset by the other ponies at the rally.

To Hilary’s surprise everyone agreed, including Evelyn, who said that Northwind was getting disgustingly fat and lazy, and must improve his jumping before the gymkhanas.

They spent a very pleasant afternoon riding in the flat field. To start with, they had a competition for the best-mannered pony, which Rocket won; then a jumping contest, in which Sky Pilot had the jumps at three feet six, Northwind at three feet, and the three smaller ponies at two feet six. Sky Pilot and Pixie both jumped clear rounds, and Rocket was third with one fault. Then, while the others rode bending and potato races, Hilary practised turns on the forehand and back-reining, as well as teaching Rocket to open gates and lead in hand.

On Saturday, the day of the rally, Major Holbrooke’s temper was stretched to its limit long before ten o’clock. To begin with, it was raining—pouring steadily and relentlessly out of one of those steel grey skies in which even the most confirmed optimist can find no hope of change. Then, to make matters worse, the bath water was cold—a rare occurrence at Folly Court, which made it all the more difficult to accept in a spirit of resignation; and finally, the Major found one of his grooms hitting Southwind’s foal with a pitchfork and had to give him the sack.

Altogether it was in an extremely disagreeable mood that Major Holbrooke strode out of the house at the sound of Beauty’s and Sunset’s hoofs coming up the drive.

“What the dickens did you come without a mackintosh for?” he asked angrily as he noticed Noel clad only in a school blazer.

“Sorry,” said Noel, instantly regretting she had come.

“I offered to lend her my other mack,” said Susan. “But it’s a tartan cape, and she thought it would be an insult to Beauty.”

“I suppose I’d better lend you one,” said the Major, ignoring Susan. “Not that it’ll be much good now; you’re simply soaked.”

“It’s all right, thank you,” said Noel. “I’m used to getting wet—I like it.”

“Well, personally I don’t,” said Major Holbrooke, “and I don’t propose to stand here getting wetter and wetter. You’d better take those ponies into the barn until the other children come.” He turned on his heel and marched into the house, banging the elegant white front door behind him.

“Goodness,” said Susan, “he was in a temper, and it’s not your fault if you haven’t got a mack.”

“Oh, do shut up about mackintoshes,” said Noel. “It’s me who’s getting wet, so why should everyone else interfere? I wish I’d never come to this beastly rally.”

“Well, it’s nice and dry in here anyway,” said Susan in soothing tones as she rode into the huge tithe barn, which stood by itself a little way from the stables. They both dismounted and waited in silence, Susan wondering what it must feel like to be poor. She knew that her parents hadn’t always been rich, but in all Valerie’s sombre stories of her impoverished childhood—when, apparently, she hadn’t had one half of the pleasures and advantages which Susan enjoyed—there had been no mention of the inconvenience of not having a mackintosh.

Soon John joined them. “Hallo,” he said, riding into the barn. “Isn’t it a beastly day?” And then, catching sight of Noel, “Gosh, you didn’t come without a mackintosh, did you?”

“Yes,” said Noel firmly.

“Gosh,” said John again, “whatever for? You didn’t think it was going to clear up?”

“No,” said Noel. “I’m not quite such a hopeless weather prophet as that. I haven’t got a mackintosh.” And she began to wonder why people despised one for not having clothes when ponies, pictures, books, and even music, were so much more important. She wondered, too, why she always thought she was going to enjoy rallies beforehand when she had been disillusioned so many times. John felt awkward waiting in silence. Why couldn’t one of the girls say something, he wondered, instead of standing there, Noel looking as though the world might end at any moment, and Susan, an embarrassed smile on her face, patting Sunset at intervals? “Stand still, can’t you?” he said crossly to Jet as she changed her weight to rest the other hind leg.

At last Hilary arrived. She rode to the barn door, closely followed by the Major, and said to the other horse-breakers, “Hallo, isn’t it a foul day?” They said Hallo, and the Major, after silently handing Noel a mackintosh, said, “Come on, then, all of you; it isn’t going to stop, so we may as well resign ourselves to getting wet,” and he led the way down the drive to the field where the rallies were always held.

“But aren’t Richard and June coming?” asked Susan, trotting to catch up with him.

“No,” said the Major. “They both had appointments at the dentist’s. Rather a coincidence, wasn’t it?” John and Hilary noticed the sarcasm in the Major’s voice, but Susan said, “Yes, it does seem queer; perhaps they both had toothache. I know I should refuse to go on a Pony Club day unless I bad really awful toothache.”

By the time they reached the field Noel had managed to struggle into the mackintosh. It wasn’t much too big, except for the sleeves, and she guessed that it must belong to Mrs. Holbrooke. The Major opened the gate and asked the children to walk round the school a length behind each other. At first Hilary took the lead, but Rocket, which didn’t like the look of the strange field, would stop and shy every few yards, upsetting all the other ponies. To begin with, Major Holbrooke shouted instructions to Hilary. He told her to pat and speak to Rocket, then to use her legs, and when it seemed that he was just being naughty, to hit him. But Rocket went on shying, and when the Major gave the order to trot, he caused havoc. Every time he stopped, the other ponies, which, being unbalanced, were still rather hard to control, ran into him and each other. Hilary was becoming more and more flustered, and Rocket was beginning to believe in his up to now imaginary bogies when the Major, in exasperation, shouted to Noel, “You’re riding a schooled pony; for goodness’ sake take the lead.”

“What?” asked Noel before his words had had time to sink in, and then, realising what he had said, she became flustered, and gave Beauty a kick which made her leap forward and bump into Rocket, which had just given another shy. Apologising to Hilary, Noel disentangled herself and took the lead. For a few moments all went well. They walked and trotted round the school, and Noel was just thinking that perhaps leading wasn’t so bad after all—she had always avoided it at both school and rallies, for there were usually plenty of people who wanted to lead, and she was content to hide herself in some inconspicuous place near the end of the line—when Major Holbrooke shouted, “Change the rein.”

“What?” asked Noel, though she had heard perfectly.

“Change the rein,” he repeated. Noel panicked. She knew that the Major meant her to go round the school the opposite way, for they had often done this at rallies before, but then she had blindly followed the person in front of her and never noticed how it was done. She wavered indecisively at the corner of the school. “Turn right,” shouted the Major, but Noel couldn’t remember which way was which; she took a chance and turned left out into the field. Susan, who was behind Noel and knew her right from left, turned right, and John and Hilary followed. Suddenly Sunset noticed that she was leading. She stopped dead, and Rocket and Jet, which were too close, ran into her. Giving an angry squeal, Sunset lashed out, catching Rocket on his forearm.

“Can’t you people even keep off each others’ tails?” asked the Major angrily. “What is the good of me trying to teach you to school ponies when you can’t even ride round a school a length apart?”

“Sorry,” said John and Hilary hastily.

“Is Rocket hurt?” asked Susan anxiously.

“He’s bleeding from this front leg,” said Noel, pointing. Hilary dismounted, and she and the Major examined the wound.

“I don’t think it’s much,” said Major Holbrooke. “Just a cut. It was lucky she caught him on the forearm and not on the knee; I don’t think it’ll make him lame. You’d better take him up to the stables,” the Major went on, speaking to Hilary, “and ask Blake to bathe it, then bring him back and we’ll see if he’s sound.” Hilary led Rocket away and Major Holbrooke turned to the others. “Now, for goodness’ sake keep away from each other,” he said. “The next one may not be so lucky.”

“No,” said Susan. “And I don’t want you kicked, do I, Sunset? Even though you were horrid enough to kick Rocket.”

“Now,” said the Major, “where had we got to? Oh, yes, I remember,” he went on. “Noel had just tied everyone up in knots. Don’t you know how to change the rein?”

“No,” said Noel miserably.

“But we’ve done it at every Pony Club rally,” said the Major. “You must be half-asleep if you’ve never noticed.” Noel didn’t say anything; she stared hard at Beauty’s wet mane and felt herself grow redder and redder.

“Well, lead on round,” said Major Holbrooke. “I’d better try to teach you.”

Noel rode round the school, wishing she had never joined the Pony Club, and feeling that she would hate Major Holbrooke, Susan, and John for ever. Suddenly she realised that the Major was speaking. “Turn right,” he shouted. “Right, at the corner.” Noel felt near tears; she had forgotten which way was right again, and in despair she pulled Beauty up. Then John rode up beside her. “That way,” he said, pointing across the school.

“Where?” asked Noel.

“Look,” said Major Holbrooke, walking up and trying to speak calmly, “it’s obvious you don’t turn to the left, for that would lead you right off the school. Imagine you are riding in a covered school, keeping as close to the wall as you can. There will only be one way you can turn, won’t there? Inwards. When I tell you to change the rein,” he went on, “turn inwards, and ride diagonally across the school. Trot on.”

The next time Noel muddled through somehow, and when she had changed the rein several times the Major tried to teach her the diagonal change of hand, which she recognised as the figure that June had ridden on Grey Dawn. But Noel was hopelessly confused, and the Major became more and more exasperated. Everyone was glad when Hilary returned with Rocket, and they were able to stop schooling while she trotted him up and down for the Major to see if he was lame. Happily he wasn’t, but Major Holbrooke gave Hilary another lecture about keeping off people’s tails, during which John would wink at Noel and Susan. Noel was too downcast to pay much attention, but Susan giggled until the Major heard. He thought she was laughing at him, so he was crosser than ever, and gave her a long lecture on how it wasn’t funny to kick another person’s pony, and how, if she had used her legs, Sunset wouldn’t have jibbed.

John, the only unscathed member of the party, did not remain so for long. The Major, having asked them all to ride circles, soon discovered that John wasn’t loosening his outside rein, and was, therefore, preventing Jet from following the order—to turn her head and neck inwards, that his inside rein was giving. When he remembered to do this, John forgot to use his outside leg, so that Jet’s quarters, which should have been turned inwards, were straight with the rest of her and she wasn’t making a circle at all. When John had learned to circle properly, the Major told Noel to canter a figure of eight, an exercise which, he said, was too advanced for the young ponies at the moment. Noel rode the figure of eight with a flying change in the middle, and she was feeling quite pleased with herself until the Major said that she had ridden at the extended, instead of the collected, canter, and asked her whether she knew anything about collection. Of course Noel didn’t, so the Major went on to explain that she must sit down in the saddle and use her legs and seat to get her pony’s hocks under him. Once he was balanced, with his hocks in the right place, a schooled horse could, and should, be collected by a little finger. Strength was unnecessary and must never be used. Then Major Holbrooke told the horse-breakers that the young ponies weren’t ready to be taught collection yet, but he hoped that some, at any rate, would be advanced enough by the summer holidays. It was, he said, quite fatal to teach collection too early, for if a pony wasn’t balanced, you would have to pull his head in by force, and such severe use of the reins would, naturally, hurt his mouth. To avoid the pain, the wretched animal would recourse to some bad habit: pulling, stargazing, overbending—all ways of escaping too rough use of the bit. When their ponies were going well, the Major went on, in a balanced manner, which could be told by their head-carriage and the ease with which they could change from fast to slow paces, pull up, and back-rein—when they could walk, trot, and canter round the school, turn on the forehand and haunches, pass, and lead on the correct leg at the canter, then the horse-breakers might think of riding their pupils in double bridles. The only way to obtain balance and the improved head-carriage, which would automatically follow, the Major continued, was to keep on with the schooling, the balancing exercises that the school figures were designed to provide. Looking at Noel, the Major said that the diagonal, counter, and reversed changes of hand, half-voltes and circles, should all be practised. Lungeing, riding up and down hills and across rough ground or plough, were also very helpful in balancing a young horse.

“Noel,” said Susan, when Major Holbrooke finished speaking, “June shouldn’t be riding Grey Dawn in a double bridle yet.”

“Ssh,” said Noel, “the Major will hear.”

“Now,” said Major Holbrooke, “has any one any questions to ask?” And, when no one answered, he said, “Come on, I’m sure you don’t know everything.”

“If it’s so easy to spoil a horse by riding him in a double bridle, why not teach him to collect in a snaffle?” asked Susan.

“Because only one horse in a thousand will collect in a snaffle,” said the Major. “But first let us make it quite clear what we mean by collection. We have already said that, first and foremost, our horses must have his hocks under him, he must be full of impulsion—that is, eager to go, and yet under complete control, between our legs and our little fingers. To allow us to have this control our horse must bend his head at the poll, drop his nose, and flex his lower jaw to the bit, and that is where a double bridle comes in. As you know, a double bridle consists of a snaffle, or bridoon, as it is often called, and a curb bit with a curb chain. The snaffle’s job is to raise our horse’s head. Bring Beauty here, Noel, I want to demonstrate. Now look,” the Major went on, taking Beauty’s reins, “when I feel the snaffle rein she raises her head, but leaves her nose poked out. The curb, in conjunction with the curb-chain, will make her drop her nose, arch her neck, and flex her lower jaw. See, I feel the curb rein, the bit acts on the bars of her mouth, the chain in the curb groove, and instantly she drops her nose. I am going to feel the rein again,” the Major continued, “and this time I want you to watch the curb chain. Notice how it tightens and presses into the curb groove and you will realise why you must always make sure that it is flat and not twisted. Come a little nearer and you will see that the mouthpiece of the curb can slide up and down the cheek for about half an inch. This is very important. As you see, when the curb rein is loose, the mouthpiece lies at the bottom of the slide, but directly I tighten the rein it begins to slide upwards to the top, where it remains until I slacken the rein again. As the mouthpiece rises there is a greater amount of cheek below it, and therefore a greater leverage, which exerts more pressure on the bars of the mouth, and by means of the curb chain, in the curb groove. In fact, the longer the horse takes to obey the bit the more severe it becomes. Being an intelligent animal, he soon realises this, and, to avoid the increasing discomfort, he will flex at the lightest feel of the curb rein.”

The Major went on to say that two of the things one had to look out for when teaching a young horse to collect, were that he might fight against the bit, before he understood that to obey meant relief from the discomfort it caused, or a very common habit, he might flex his jaw with his head too low. But as neither ponies nor riders were ready to learn collection yet, he didn’t think they need go any further that day, and, if no one had any questions to ask, they would do some jumping.

“Oh, goody!” said Susan, who had not been listening to the answer to her question.

“That’ll be super,” said John, who had practised the forward seat a lot since the last Pony Club rally.

“Nothing very exciting to start with,” said Major Holbrooke. “Just a pole on the ground. Noel, lead over at a walk, please.” Noel, who felt glad it was no higher if she had to lead, gave Beauty a loose rein and walked quietly over. The others followed. When everyone had walked over the pole twice, the Major told them to trot, and no one was corrected, except John, who, in excess of zeal, pulled Jet up too sharply when she cantered.

“They all do that very nicely,” said the Major when each pony had had several turns. “Now we’ll try a jump,” and he led the way across the field to where there was a course of jumps of various types and sizes. He lowered a white bar to about one foot six and told Noel to lead on at a trot. All the ponies jumped it perfectly, but Susan’s legs were too far back and Hilary’s hands rested on Rocket’s withers instead of sliding up on either side of his neck.

“How high have you been jumping these ponies?” asked Major Holbrooke. “They’re all going very well, but I don’t want to overface them.”

“Rocket’s jumped two feet six,” said Hilary.

“Jet’s never jumped higher than two feet,” said John.

“One foot six is the highest I’ve ever put Sunset at,” said Susan, “but I’m sure she can jump much higher, only Noel said I would overface her.”

“Well, I don’t think two feet will hurt any of them,” said Major Holbrooke. “But wait a minute, we’ll give Noel something a bit more interesting first,” and he raised the bar to three feet. Noel and Beauty cleared it easily.

“Don’t let your hands touch your pony’s neck,” said the Major. “To follow through properly and give her an entirely free head at every stage of the jump they must be self-supporting, and, for goodness’ sake, take that mackintosh off; it’s stopped raining and you look like an orphan.”

“May I take mine off too?” asked Susan.

“Of course, if you want to,” said Major Holbrooke.

“Oh, goody,” said Susan, and there was a general discarding of mackintoshes, which were hung on the park fence.

Then Major Holbrooke told Noel to stand aside while the young ponies jumped and he would give her something more difficult at the end. So Noel watched and tried to decide which was the best schooled of the three ponies. Rocket’s head-carriage was the highest and his jumping was excellent—he never tried to run out or refuse, but Noel thought he seemed lazy, and certainly Hilary had to kick hard to make him canter. Jet, on the other hand, though not so well balanced and apparently difficult to keep straight at her fences, was much more willing, and obeyed a more elegant leg aid. Sunset wasn’t as lazy as Rocket, but her head-carriage was lower, and she had an uncomfortable habit of cat-jumping, which unseated Susan over almost every jump. Noel was wondering what sort of a test the Major would give the horse-breakers in the summer and which of them would win, when she heard him say, “Come on, Noel, stop day-dreaming; here’s a nice little course for you,” and, looking up, she saw that he had raised all the jumps to a little over three feet.

“But they’re enormous. I couldn’t possibly jump them,” said Noel, speaking without thinking.

“Don’t be absurd,” said Major Holbrooke, looking distinctly annoyed. “In the first place, they’re not at all large, and, secondly, you’re riding a jolly good pony. Why can’t you jump them? Do you mean you don’t want to?”

“No,” said Noel, wishing she could cut her tongue off. “No, of course not.”

“Well, stop dithering, and come on, then,” said the Major. “The brush fence is first.”

Noel turned and rode Beauty at the brush fence. They cleared it, and went on over the five other jumps.

“Jolly good,” said Susan as they cleared the last one.

“A perfect round,” said Hilary.

“Gosh! Beauty can jump,” said John.

“They weren’t quite so enormous as you thought, were they?” asked Major Holbrooke as Noel rode back, patting Beauty. “It wasn’t a bad round,” he went on, when she didn’t reply, “but you took the parallel bars too slowly and only just cleared them. And now, I am afraid, we must stop,” and, turning from Noel to the official horse-breakers, he said, “I want you to remember that the main object of schooling is to teach your pony the aids, and to balance and supple him so that he can obey the lightest possible aid in the shortest possible time. There are no short cuts to this. You can make a horse look balanced by the use of the side reins and dumb jockey, but that’s not what we want. When you school, don’t bore yourself and your pony by riding aimlessly round and round. Ride the school figures, invent new figures, but always do them properly; don’t get slack and cut the corners. When you’re out for hacks, don’t stick to the lanes and roads; every hill, whether you ride up or down, will improve your pony. As for jumping,” the Major went on, “at the moment they are all going well, but don’t forget that lungeing over fences is invaluable, especially if you are a trifle heavy for your pony, and remember that breadth, rather than height, should be your aim. By the way,” he finished, “Mrs. Maxton is kindly organising a picnic ride on Friday, and there will be an instructional rally here to-day fortnight, to which you can bring either your own ponies or the youngsters. Now it’s very late, so good-bye and thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for having us,” said the horse-breakers in one voice, and, following him out of the field, they said good-bye, and took their different directions down the drive; Noel, John, and Susan together, Hilary alone.

“He wasn’t in a very good mood to-day,” said John to Noel and Susan as soon as they were out of earshot of the Major.

“Poor Noel caught it,” said Susan. “And so did the rest of us when we rode on each other’s tails.”

“What about the blowing up I got when I didn’t circle properly?” said John.

“Didn’t Beauty jump well?” said Susan. “You were awfully good on her, Noel; much better than I am. I know I should have fallen off over those jumps. I think they were enormous, and I don’t care what the Major says.”

“They didn’t seem so big when you got close to them,” said Noel. “And Beauty was marvellous. I only had to sit there while she did everything, but I’m sorry I held her back too much at the parallel bars.”

“Well, she cleared them,” said Susan, “and that’s all that matters.”

“But if she wasn’t such a good jumper she mightn’t have cleared them,” said Noel.

“You’re as bad as the Major,” said Susan, “always bothering about small details. I can’t see much fun in riding if you’re going to be so particular.”

“Nor me,” said John. “I see now that it’s important not to jag your pony’s mouth or bump on his loins, but as long as he’s comfortable, what does it matter whether every little detail is right or not?”

“It depends on whether you’re an artist,” said Noel.

“But riding’s got nothing to do with painting,” said Susan.

John grinned, and Noel said, “No, but you can be an artist at practically any job; it just means that you take such a pride in your work that you can’t bear anything but perfection, and I should think that is how Major Holbrooke feels about riding.”

“Yes, I expect he does,” said John. “But I don’t see why he should try to force us to do the same.”

“He’s not trying to force you,” said Noel. “You wanted to have Jet, and it’s not the Major’s fault if you’ve changed your mind now that you’ve found that there is so much more in schooling than you supposed.”

“But I haven’t changed my mind,” said John. “It’s only that I can’t see much point in being such a fusspot.”

“Oh, John,” said Susan, “he’s not a fusspot; he’s only a bit too particular.”

“Well, that’s the same thing,” said John as he pulled Jet up in the gateway, and, changing the subject, asked, “Are you two coming to the picnic ride?”

“Yes—rather,” said Susan.

“I don’t know,” said Noel. “I shall have to see.” She was thinking that such a long ride would be too much for Sunset, as Susan would be riding Beauty, and as Simon was almost certain to go, she wouldn’t be able to borrow Rusty.

“I haven’t decided yet, either,” said John. “What’s Mrs. Maxton like?”

“Awfully nice,” said Susan. “Not nearly so particular as the Major, except about trotting too much on the roads and that sort of thing.”

“Nothing like that awful Mitchell woman, I hope,” said John.

“I hadn’t got Beauty when she ran the Pony Club,” said Susan, “so I don’t really know, but I shouldn’t think so.”

“I suppose I’d better be going,” said John, looking at his watch, “though I’m late for lunch already, so it won’t make much difference. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said Susan and Noel as John left them and rode towards Lower Basset.

As Hilary rode homewards through the faint drizzle to which the earlier torrents of rain had degenerated, she thought over the rally. Roger had been right in saying that no one, except perhaps June, would ask tactless questions about Romany, she thought. Even the Major hadn’t mentioned the subject, and, on the whole, the rally had been much more fun than she had expected. Rocket, apart from being nappy at the beginning, had gone well, but she wished that June had been there, for she would have liked to compare him with Grey Dawn. The Major obviously thought that Richard and June had used the dentist as an excuse, and Hilary felt glad that her mother and Roger had persuaded her to go. It would have been awful if three of the horse-breakers had had appointments with their dentists, especially as there were only two in Brampton. As Hilary turned and rode under the grey stone archway into the Priory drive, Evelyn’s head appeared at the nursery window. “Do buck up and unsaddle him,” she yelled. “I’m making lino cuts and it’s simply marvellous fun. Do be quick and come and help.” She shut the window with a slam and disappeared from Hilary’s view.

It had stopped raining by the time Noel reached home, and a thin, watery gleam of sunshine was filtering through the clouds. Mrs. Kettering, who was planting out sweet-williams, looked up at the sound of the gate shutting and said, “Hallo, did you have a good time?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Noel. “I learned quite a lot. But why did it have to rain?”

“Are you very wet?” asked Mrs. Kettering.

“No,” said Noel. “The Major was a bit fussy and would lend me a mack, so I’m fairly dry. Beauty jumped marvellously,” she went on. “She did a clear round, and it was quite a high course—at least three feet.”

“Good heavens,” said Mrs. Kettering. “You are getting on with your jumping; I must come and see you at the next rally.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll be able to borrow Beauty for the next one,” said Noel. “I expect Susan will ride her, because it’s for everyone, not just horse-breakers. I do wish,” she went on, “that I could have Romany. It does seem such a waste for her to be turned out at Folly Farm and never ridden. I’m sure she can’t be very naughty; she’s so nice and friendly to talk to.”

“Why don’t you ask the Major?” said Mrs. Kettering.

“I’m not nearly a good enough rider,” said Noel. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“But he can’t say more than no,” said Mrs. Kettering. “And that won’t kill you.”

“I’m sure he’d think I was awfully conceited,” said Noel.

“My good girl,” said Mrs. Kettering violently, “what does that matter? If no one ever thinks anything worse about you than that, you’ll be jolly lucky. You can’t go through life weighing up what people will say or think to every action before you make it. Think of all the great books that would never have been written, the great pictures that would never have been painted, and the lands that would never have been discovered, if the writers, the artists, and the explorers had stopped to wonder what people might say or think. That’s the trouble about the modern generation, they pride themselves on not being rash or hot-headed. ‘Look before you leap’ is their motto, caution is their watchword. They smile contemptuously at the mention of Raleigh, Drake, Nelson, or Disraeli, but I, who would ‘rather see England free than England sober,’ gaze upon their level-headedness with horror, especially when you seem to be catching it. If you want Romany, for goodness’ sake ask the Major and stop dithering.”

As Noel ate her belated lunch, it occurred to her that this was the second time she had been told to stop dithering that day.

Remembering his mood of the morning, Mrs. Holbrooke tactfully let the Major eat his lunch and start drinking his coffee before she asked, “Well, and how did the rally go?”

“Not too badly, considering the weather,” replied Major Holbrooke, more cheerfully than his wife had expected. “The ponies all seem quiet enough and I don’t think Cousin Harry will be able to grumble by the time we’ve finished with them. The Barington-Brown child’s pony kicked Hilary Radcliffe’s Rocket, but luckily it was only a slight cut, and perhaps it will teach them not to ride on each other’s heels.”

“I doubt it,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. “I’ve never known anything, but advancing old age, teach children that.”

“It is extraordinarily how long it takes to get anything into their heads,” said Major Holbrooke. “I spent about twenty minutes trying to teach Noel Kettering to change the rein and I’m sure she doesn’t know now.”

“Well, of course, she is rather a vague child,” said Mrs. Holbrooke.

“Yes,” said the Major. “But it’s really amazing the way she’s got on with her riding.”

Chapter VIII

ALL THROUGH the next week Mrs. Kettering’s words rang in Noel’s ears. Each night she resolved to ask Major Holbrooke if she could have Romany. But each morning she wakened wondering how she could ever have been conceited enough to dream that he might say yes, or even, when it came to the point, that she would have the courage to ask him. She walked over to Folly Farm several times to talk to Romany, vowing that if she saw the Major she would ask him, but at the same time hoping with all her heart that she wouldn’t meet him. It was Richard Morrisson who decided her. They met in Bond’s, the Brampton bookseller. She was looking for a book on riding to buy with a book-token she had been sent for her birthday. Richard was rummaging among a pile of maps.

“Hallo,” said Noel.

“Hallo,” answered Richard rather crossly. “Isn’t this an inefficient shop?” he added after a pause. “One can’t get anything in these wretched cock-eyed provincial towns. London is the only place to shop.”

“Ssh,” said Noel, looking anxiously at Mr. Bond. “He’ll hear.”

“I hope he does,” said Richard, “then perhaps he’ll do something about it. I want a map of Buttonshire, and all he says is that if he has got one it’ll be among this pile, and I’ve been searching for simply hours.”

“Are you going for a riding tour or something?” asked Noel as she began to help look for the map.

“No,” said Richard. “A cycling one, with Michael Thorpington.”

“Gosh,” said Noel, “you are energetic. But what about Rufus? You won’t have much time to school him, will you?”

“I’m not going to be away all that long,” replied Richard peevishly. “And anyway, I don’t see why I should devote my life to him. I’m not June Cresswell, you know. I have got a few interests beside horses. Anyway, if we do teach the wretched animals all this stuff the Major’s so keen on, they’ll only be mucked up by some feeble beginner; so why waste time?”

“If beginners are properly taught they don’t muck ponies up,” protested Noel indignantly. “Anyhow, the original idea was that the Pony Club members should learn to break and school, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, I believe it was, partly,” said Richard. “But there was an ulterior motive, don’t you worry. I bet the old Colonel wanted his ponies broken in cheap. But apart from that, if you can ride decently and have average intelligence, you don’t need to be taught breaking and schooling—I mean it’s obvious, there’s nothing in it.”

“I don’t agree with you,” said Noel. “I think there’s a great deal in it. It seems to me that the more one learns about riding the more one finds there is to learn.”

“Oh, well,” said Richard in a patronising voice, “I wasn’t really including you. I mean, to put it quite frankly, you’re not much of a horsewoman, are you? Not that it’s your fault. I dare say that if you could get hold of a decent pony, and if you were to ride for as many years as I have, you’d be quite reasonable. But even then natural ability counts a terrific lot.” Noel felt herself go red with rage. She was filled with an almost overwhelming desire to smack Richard’s pink, self-satisfied face, but she controlled it, and said instead, “The Major seems to think that Susan is good enough to break a pony and she hasn’t been riding more than two years.” Richard looked up in surprise when he heard the angry note in her voice.

“Don’t get in a bait just because I said you weren’t all that good at riding,” he advised. “You weren’t thinking of asking the Major if you could take over Romany, I suppose?” He gave an incredulous laugh, as though the mere thought was out of the question, and added, “My sister might as well try to break—she’s no worse than you.” Noel didn’t reply. She couldn’t trust her voice, and after a few moments Richard said, “I shall ask my father to get the map in London. I’m not going to waste my time messing about here. Cheerio,” and walked out of the shop.

Noel stood gazing with sightless eyes at Sunshine Sayings, a book of moral verse by Pansy Paisley, for at least five minutes after Richard had gone. Her brain whirled furiously in a vicious circle. I’d like to push him in a really stagnant pond, thought some outraged part of her; and she saw the pink face peering through a curtain of slime and the straw-coloured hair festooned with duckweed. Why should he say I’m not good enough to break and school?

Ah, but why get in such a fury when he agrees with you? asked some cooler part of her annoyingly. You know you said you couldn’t ask the Major about Romany because you knew you weren’t a good enough rider.

Yes, but there’s no need for him to rub it in, replied the hot-headed part of her sulkily.

It was a little tactless, certainly, allowed the level-headed part, but nothing to get in a temper about. If you ask me, you had a sneaking feeling that you were good enough, but you won’t admit it for fear of being thought conceited, which, of course, you are.

I’m not, said the hot-headed part angrily.

Well, then, you must be jealous of Richard, because he can ride better than you, suggested the level-headed part coldly.

If I ride as badly as that sack of potatoes I may as well give up, stormed the hot-headed part.

Ah, now we’re getting down to brass tacks, said the cool half in the most irritating manner. You must think you’re good enough to break ponies if you think you ride better than some of the actual horse-breakers.

I didn’t say anything of the sort, replied the heated half, but it’s obvious to any one that . . .

“Can I help you?” asked Mr. Bond in his high crackling voice.

“Oh,” said Noel, jumping; “er—no, I mean—yes. Have you got From Shetland to Show Hack, by Colonel Archibald Snake, or The Lane to Success, a treatise on training show jumpers, by ‘Clear Round?’ ” Mr. Bond peered round his shop, looking, thought Noel, like a very elderly tortoise, and then said he was afraid he hadn’t either work in stock, but that he would be very pleased to order them. After some thought Noel decided to order From Shetland to Show Hack, because “Showman” in his review had said that Colonel Snake’s clearly and concisely written work would be invaluable to both beginner and expert. When Mr. Bond had written down all the particulars and promised to have the book by the end of the following week, Noel walked into the street and continued her argument, gazing at the fascinating confusion of knives and tools in Flaptons’, the ironmongers, window.

It’s no good losing your temper, the cool half of her told the other; you’ve got to face facts. Either you’re jolly conceited and believe you ride well enough to break a pony, or else you’re the sort of person who flies into petty tempers about nothing. Gosh, thought Noel, I can’t go on like this. I shall go raving mad. I’ll have to ask Major Holbrooke about Romany, and that’ll settle it one way or the other. Filled with determination, she glanced at the Town Hall clock, and decided that she just had time to get to Folly Court and back before lunch.

At first Noel walked fast, whistling the “Barcarole” from the Contes d’Hoffmann to keep her courage up. But the nearer she drew to Folly Court the slower she walked; and when she reached the Towers she gave up whistling and began to feel cold and sick, as though she was going in for a horse show or some vital exam. As she walked through the tall wrought-iron gates her knees felt weak, but telling herself that it was because she had forgotten to have any elevenses, she walked a few steps up the drive before the last shreds of confidence deserted her. How could she ever have been so utterly crazy as to think she could ride well enough, she asked herself. She imagined the Major’s scornful laugh and heard him say, Whatever put that fantastic idea into your head? I’m sorry, but I couldn’t dream of it; I’ve got my cousin and the pony to consider, and where Evelyn Radcliffe failed how can you hope to succeed?

Oh gosh, thought Noel, stopping dead in her tracks, I’d better go back. But then she thought of Shelley, Van Gogh, Charles Goodyear, and Winston Churchill—they had all had horrid moments and they had all taken the plunge. She walked on, feeling herself grow smaller and smaller under the critical gaze of the eyes, which she was, quite wrongly, sure were looking from the tall Georgian windows of Folly Court. She knocked with the shining brass door-knocker. A tiny muffled sound was borne away on the breeze. She waited. Nothing happened. Of course no one will hear that, she thought, and knocked again. This time it sounded like thunder, and as the noise died away, Jackson, the Holbrookes’ manservant, opened the door.

“Is Major Holbrooke at home, please?” asked Noel, hoping that he wasn’t.

“Yes, Miss,” replied Jackson. “He’s in the stable yard, if you’d care to go round?”

“Yes, I will,” said Noel, cursing fate. “Thank you very much.” With her knees feeling weaker than ever, she crossed the rose garden and walked under the red brick archway into the stable yard.

Major Holbrooke was talking to a tall man in corduroy trousers, whom Noel recognised as Mr. Thomas, the vet.

“Well, thank you very much for coming,” the Major was saying.

“That’s quite all right,” said Mr. Thomas. “I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble with her now, but I should certainly keep her on a light diet for a day or two.”

“Good morning, Noel,” said Major Holbrooke as he turned and caught sight of her hovering indecisively in the background.

“Good morning,” replied Noel.

“Well, cheerio,” said Mr. Thomas, and he got into his car and drove down the drive.

“A lovely day, isn’t it?” said Major Holbrooke to Noel, whose mouth had gone dry.

“Yes, it is a lovely day,” she mumbled in agreement as she racked her brain frantically for a way to get on the subject of Romany.

“Southwind has just had a bad attack of colic,” said Major Holbrooke, making conversation while he wondered why Noel had come to see him.

“I hope she’s better now,” said Noel, wishing for an earthquake or an eclipse.

“Yes, she is, thank you,” said Major Holbrooke. “But the routine of the stable has been upset because Blake had to spend most of the night with her, so he has gone to bed now and left me in charge. I was just in the middle of feeding when Thomas came. Have you seen our forage-room? It’s really rather nice,” and, picking up a bucket, he led the way past the saddle-room to the long low building where the forage was kept.

“That’s a very labour-saving device,” he said, pointing at a machine in the corner. “An electric chaff-cutter.”

“I came to ask you if I could have Romany,” said Noel, suddenly taking the plunge. “I mean to school; but I suppose I’m much too bad a rider.” Her voice trailed away, and she stood looking at her feet and wondering why she always did such idiotic things.

“Well, it’s like this, Noel,” said Major Holbrooke slowly as he seated himself on a corn-bin, “officially Romany was sent back because Evelyn let her younger brother and sister ride her, which, quite rightly, she had been forbidden to do, and, as I expect you know, James came off and broke his arm. But, besides this, Dr. Radcliffe told me that he didn’t think Romany was going very well; he said she seemed far too excitable and that it was all Evelyn could do to control her. Now I should imagine that the pony’s been thoroughly hotted up,” the Major went on, “but there’s nothing vicious about her; she’s a very nice-tempered little thing, and, personally, I think you should be able to manage her. You’ve improved quite a lot lately and you’ve a good deal of horse-sense. You must realise, though, that you’ll have to put a good deal of work into her. It’s not all fun reschooling a spoilt pony—in fact it’s often very disheartening. But if your parents agree, and if you’re quite sure you want to, you can try your hand with Romany.”

“Oh, thanks awfully,” said Noel. “Mummy has already said I can have her if you think that I am a good enough rider. Do you think I am? I don’t want to make her worse.”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” said Major Holbrooke, getting up from the corn-bin. “Have you got a saddle and bridle?”

“No,” said Noel, “not at the moment, but I expect I can acquire them.”

“There’s no need to do that,” said the Major. “I’ve got the tack which belonged to my youngest son’s first pony. I was keeping it for my grandchildren, but it’ll do it good to be used.” When he had fed Gay Crusader and Harmony, Major Holbrooke led the way to the saddle-room, and, from a cupboard, produced a saddle, complete with girths, stirrups and leathers, and a bridle with a rubber snaffle-bit. Then, after collecting a halter and some oats, they walked down to the field where Romany was turned out. She looked lovelier than ever, thought Noel, in spite of being much too fat and covered with mud and grass stains. Her candid brown eyes shone gaily, her absurd mane, half-chestnut and half-white, stood on end, and the neat white star on her otherwise chestnut forehead gave her a very intelligent expression. “She’s grown, hasn’t she?” Noel asked the Major.

“Yes,” he replied. “They don’t usually grow after they’re four; they only fill out; but she’s done both.” As usual, Romany was delighted to see humans. She trotted up, whinnying. Noel slipped the halter on, and held her while Major Holbrooke saddled and bridled her. Then he said, “Hop on and let’s see how she goes.” Noel felt that this was nothing less than torture—to ride alone in front of the Major, the only object on which his critical eye could rest. She mounted, from the wrong side, and, marking out a school in her mind’s eye, rode round it. Romany wouldn’t walk: she jogged and threw her head about, snatching the reins from Noel’s hands. Noel forgot the Major while she tried to persuade Romany to walk, pulling her up when she jogged, and then, the moment she stopped, giving her a loose rein. After a little, Romany began to walk, and, still without remembering the Major, Noel circled and rode round the school the other way at a trot. Now Romany wanted to canter. She pulled and cantered sideways, throwing her head about worse than ever. Noel tried to calm her, but in vain, and after a few minutes the Major said, “I should canter her round for a bit—she’s hopelessly overfresh.” Noel gave Romany her head; she shot forward into a gallop and gave three bucks. Noel flew off.

Oh, I am feeble; why did I come off, she thought as she scrambled to her feet. Now he’ll say I’m not good enough to have her.

“Are you all right?” asked Major Holbrooke, leading Romany up.

“Yes,” said Noel firmly, and she mounted quickly so that he wouldn’t have time to say she wasn’t a good enough rider. This time she kept a feel on Romany’s mouth, and when she started to buck, Noel pulled her head up and drove her on with her legs.

“Well done,” said Major Holbrooke quietly. Noel cantered Romany round until suddenly the Major said, “Good heavens. It’s a quarter-past one! We shall be unpopular. For goodness’ sake go home, Noel, but ring up or come over if you get into difficulties. You know the way out through the farmyard, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Noel. “Thanks awfully for letting me have Romany.”

“The pleasure is entirely mine,” said Major Holbrooke. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said Noel as he strode rapidly in the direction of Folly Court. She turned and rode through the gate, down the lane to the farmyard, and down another lane to the Brampton road. Gosh, she thought, it is marvellous to have Romany. I shall be able to ride practically every day for the rest of the holidays, and in the evenings as well as the week-ends in the term. Then there’ll be the summer holidays. I must get rich by then and buy her. Weeks and months of sunlit days, spent riding through the woods and lanes or schooling in the field, unrolled before her. “And you are such a lovely pony,” she told Romany. “Much the nicest I’ve ever ridden, except for your manners. For goodness’ sake stop jogging.” The Major had been very agreeable, Noel decided, and asking not nearly as bad as she had expected; even though he had told her not to fish for compliments, he had said that her riding had improved. Perhaps one day she really would be an equitation expert. Gosh, she thought a little later, won’t everyone be surprised when they hear that I’ve got Romany. I can just see the other horse-breakers’ faces. Richard will be livid, and so will the Radcliffes, I expect; but mummy will be awfully pleased. Thinking of her mother reminded Noel that she was already three-quarters of an hour late for lunch, and that she was supposed to be shopping in Brampton. Oh, gosh, she thought, I hope she doesn’t think I’ve been run over, and, riding on the grass verge at the side of the road, she told Romany to trot.

John slammed the green door of the square white farmhouse and ran down the flagged path to the farm buildings, muttering angrily beneath his breath. Three times he had been called back by his parents for what he considered absurd reasons, and since he was already behindhand through breaking his resolution to get up early, he couldn’t imagine how he was going to find time to ride both Jet and Turpin before lunch, and he had arranged to go for a bicycling picnic with Michael Thorpington and Richard in the afternoon. John saddled Jet quickly and rode down to the Basset Bottom field, where he had put his jumps because the ground was soft. At first all went well. Jet knew everything, and behaved perfectly until John rode her at the in-and-out, which he had made for Turpin the day before. She approached it warily. Snorting loudly and paying no attention to John’s kicks, she stopped and peered nervously at the second fence. John looked at his watch, and knew he ought to fetch Turpin if he was to ride him before lunch. “Come on, can’t you?” he said to Jet, “and stop fooling around.” Hitting her sharply, he turned and rode at the jump again. Once more she slowed up and refused. Then John lost his temper completely; he hit her with all his strength. Jet was terrified; she leaped about and tried to gallop off, but John jagged her in the mouth and went on hitting her. Unable to think of anything else to do, Jet reared. John hit her, and she reared again, this time higher, and John, who had taken his feet out of the stirrups, slid gently over her tail. He was furious. Seizing the reins, he began to belabour her from the ground. Jet whirled round and round, but John held her firmly and hit her harder than ever. Suddenly a voice shouted, “Hi! Stop that,” and, looking up, John was horrified to see Major Holbrooke on Black Magic opening the gate to the field, which led from the right of way that ran along the middle of Basset Bottom.

John’s rage evaporated in a flash. Gosh, he thought miserably, there’ll be a row.

The Major came across the field at an extended canter. He looked furiously angry.

“What the devil do you mean by knocking a pony about like that?” he demanded as he pulled Black Magic up. “What the devil do you think you’re doing? I thought you liked animals, but you can’t, unless you’re crazy.”

“I’m sorry,” muttered John. But the Major, who had dismounted, went on, “I suppose you’re the sort of person who spends his time drowning cats, cutting worms in half, and tearing the wings off butterflies; I suppose you delight in squashing and killing everything smaller than yourself, which crosses your path. You’re not fit to be trusted with an animal, you revolting bully.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” said John again, wondering why he felt like bursting into tears. He never did when he got in rows at school or when his father blew him up. Oh, gosh, he thought, I mustn’t cry in front of the Major, and, trying to keep his voice steady, he said, “I’m awfully sorry, sir, but I lost my temper.”

“You’ve no business to lose your temper,” said Major Holbrooke sternly. “You’re quite old enough to control it, and, if you can’t, you oughtn’t to have a pony. Anyway, why did you lose it?”

“Because she wouldn’t jump the in-and-out,” said John, looking at his feet.

“How many times have you jumped her over it before?” asked the Major.

“None,” admitted John.

“And how many times did she refuse?” asked the Major.

“Twice,” muttered John almost inaudibly.

“Twice!” said Major Holbrooke. “And you consider that a reason to knock her about as you were doing when I came along? If your arithmetic master, having taught you a little elementary addition and subtraction, suddenly gave you a long division sum and told you to do it, and you said, ‘Gosh, what’s this?’ and then you said, ‘How on earth does one do it?’ and then he, losing his temper, began to knock you about, I suppose you’d think that quite fair and just?”

“No,” said John, “I wouldn’t.”

“And yet,” said Major Holbrooke quietly, “that is exactly what you were doing to Jet.” There was a silence, broken only by occasional sniffs from John—he didn’t seem to have a handkerchief—until the Major said, “Do you think I ought to leave Jet with you? Dare I let her run the risk of it happening again?”

“Oh, please don’t take her away,” said John. “I won’t do it again; honestly I won’t.”

“Have you ever done it before?” asked the Major.

How John would have liked to lie! He felt sure now that the Major would take Jet away, and he had never realised, until that moment, how fond of her he had grown. “Yes,” he replied in a strangled voice. Major Holbrooke lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully for a few moments. Then he said, “It’s not easy to learn to control your temper, and it’s no good thinking you’re going to do it in five minutes, but if you don’t learn now it’ll be more dangerous when you grow up, because you’ll have more people and animals in your power. Look,” he went on after a pause, “if I let you keep Jet, will you do your utmost not to lose your temper? If she seems stupid when you’re teaching her anything new, put yourself in her place—try to imagine how she is puzzling it out. You’ll only confuse her more if you get cross. But if you do feel yourself getting hot and bothered, dismount, tie her to the fence or something, and go away and look at the beauties of nature until you cool down.”

“Now get up and we’ll see if we can get her over this in-and-out.”

John mounted, and, following the Major’s instructions, jumped Jet over the second of the two bars. She did this without any fuss. Then he jumped the first bar, and the second one lying on the ground, and, finally, both at their original heights.

“You see,” said Major Holbrooke, “she was worrying about the second bar, but when we showed her how to take it she jumped it perfectly. Now don’t do it again, and I may as well tell you that I shall come round to have a look at you occasionally, so you’d better behave yourself.” As the Major mounted, John blurted out, “You won’t tell Dad; I mean, my father?”

“Good heavens, boy,” said Major Holbrooke, “what do you think I am?” and, turning Black Magic, he said good-bye and cantered off across the field.

“Good-bye,” said John to his retreating figure, “and thank you very much.” When the Major was out of sight, John spent some time patting Jet, and thinking how awful it would have been if he had taken her away, and wondering what he would have told the other horse-breakers. Then, when he had had a canter round the field, he took Jet to the stable and gave her a large feed of oats. As he walked in to lunch he decided to ring up Richard and tell him that his, John’s, bicycle had four punctures, so he couldn’t possibly go to the picnic and then devote the afternoon to schooling Turpin.

Noel was rather embarrassed by Susan’s delight when she rode into the stable yard at the Towers on Romany; especially as Susan seemed to take it for granted that the Major must think Noel a better rider than Evelyn, which Noel herself was quite sure she was not. They argued about this for some time, and then Noel said, “Well, anyway, I’m positive I’m going to be bottom when it comes to the test, for Romany’s terribly bad mannered, and I’m sure it’ll take months to cure her.”

“No one will blame you for that,” said Susan. “That’s Evelyn’s fault.”

It was quite true that Romany was bad mannered, and Noel, who found her quite hard enough to control by herself, soon found she was far worse with other ponies. She seemed to think that schooling with Sunset should be one long race. She pulled Noel’s arms out, jogging when she should be walking, cantering sideways when she was meant to be trotting, and galloping wildly about the field when she was asked to canter. If Susan expected to have plenty of races and jumping contests now that Noel had a pony of her own, she soon found she was mistaken. Noel spent half the morning persuading Romany to walk on a loose rein and the other half trying to make her trot, and when she rode her at a jump of two feet, she shot past it, taking Noel completely by surprise, and galloped three times round the field before Noel was able to pull her up. By the end of the morning Noel had decided that until Romany was better mannered she would school her alone, but since Susan found riding by herself dull, Noel agreed to school Romany in the mornings, and go over to the Towers, as often as possible, to ride Beauty in the afternoons.

When the Pony Club rally drew near, and Romany, though quieter, still couldn’t walk over a pole on the ground but shot off at a gallop, and simply wouldn’t dream of walking beside another pony when out for a hack, Noel began to despair.

“What on earth shall I do?” she asked her mother. “She’ll just gallop about, knocking everyone over. She’s silly enough if I school her with Sunset, so I just can’t imagine how she’s going to behave with twenty other ponies.”

“Why don’t you ring up Major Holbrooke and explain the trouble to him?” suggested Mrs. Kettering. “After all, he’s the expert, and he knows how she behaved when you tried her.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” said Noel. “He’d think I was awfully feeble—he’d probably think I was afraid.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Kettering. “You’re imagining things again, but if that’s how you feel you may as well go to the rally, and perhaps he’ll tell you how to cure her.”

“Well, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell when she had read June’s second postcard from Major Holbrooke asking her to bring Grey Dawn to a Pony Club rally, “you’ll have to give her some practice. I know that she’s the best trained of the ponies, but you haven’t ridden her for three weeks, you know, and you don’t want to risk being made a fool of.”

“I haven’t had time to ride her,” said June. “I can’t waste hours schooling her while there’s Wonder to keep up to the mark. It isn’t as though I can enter her for any shows—I mean, she’s not good looking enough for the showing classes and she can’t jump well enough for even the under-thirteen-two jumping.”

“Why don’t you teach her to bend and potato race?” asked Mrs. Cresswell. “She’s not of such an excitable temperament as Wonder, so she might do well, and I should like to see you show the Radcliffes and John Manners that you can beat them at races as well as everything else.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said June. “I’ll try her and see if she seems promising.” After breakfast, June brought Dawn in from the paddock, grumbling bitterly about her muddy state.

“Don’t worry about that, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “I’ll wash her for you on the morning of the rally. Don’t bother to groom her now, unless there’s any mud where the saddle goes. I don’t want you to waste your time, but do remember to practise the change of leg.”

“How you do fuss, Mummy,” said June. “Of course I’ll remember.” While June schooled Grey Dawn, she grumbled that the pony was too fat and out of condition, and when Mrs. Cresswell told her, in exasperation, that it was her own fault for not riding Dawn regularly, she sulked. She became crosser still when Dawn wouldn’t change legs behind, and said that she was wasting her time trying to school an ugly, common pony without a drop of blood, and that if Major Holbrooke’s cousin had known the first thing about ponies he would have let Grey Dawn be sold for veal, which was all she was fit for.

Hilary lay on the nursery sofa pretending that she was Mariana in the moated grange, for the sunbeams lay athwart the chamber, and the day was sloping toward his western bower. She had had to stop reading because her eyes felt queer, and, bored by solitude, she wondered impatiently how much longer she would have to wait for the return of her brothers and sisters. It was a beastly shame, she thought, that Rocket’s schooling should be completely upset through her catching ’flu. He had missed seven lessons, three hacks, and now the Pony Club rally. It was true that Roger had offered to lunge him, but one didn’t want to be helped. Selfish though it seemed, one wanted to do all the breaking and schooling entirely oneself. Hilary sat up. Mendel’s Principles of Heredity and Jane Austen’s Emma slid to the floor with a crash; she threw them on the sofa and staggered across the room, thinking that now she understood what people meant when they said that their legs felt like chewed string. Opening the wide sash window, she listened for the sound of hoofs. At first there was silence, then the purr of the Doctor’s car as he turned up the drive. He stopped beneath the nursery window to shout at her, “Are you half-witted? Hanging out of the window on the coldest day of the year when you’re only just over ’flu.”

“I was watching for the others,” said Hilary, raising her voice to be heard above the noise of the engine.

“They’re just coming,” said the Doctor. “I passed them. For heaven’s sake shut that window.”

“O.K.,” said Hilary. She shut it, and sat on the window seat looking out. Soon Sky Pilot’s head appeared through the archway, and then, some way behind as usual, for he walked too fast for them, came Darkie, Pixie, and Northwind. No one could have four nicer ponies, thought Hilary, looking down on the two blacks. Sky Pilot, with his crooked blaize, his three white socks, and that maddening little tuft of mane on his withers, sticking up as always; Darkie not such a coal black and unrelieved by any white, but walking faster than Pixie or Northwind, in spite of being the smallest of the three, her large eyes shining with the patience and kindliness that had taught all the Radcliffes to ride. Then there was Pixie, fat, round, and piebald; her black parts shone, but her white ones looked distinctly grubby as, thought Hilary, they always did when Marga groomed her. Northwind brought up the rear. His blue roan coat never shone properly, and he always dawdled, especially at the walk, but he was such a sensible fellow and a marvellous hunter, that his laziness and his repulsive habit of overeating were always forgiven him.

Each of the riders waved and shouted to Hilary when they looked up and saw her at the window. They all felt terribly mean to have spent the day enjoying themselves while she had had to stay drearily indoors.

Margaret was the first person to get her pony settled for the night. She rushed into the nursery and said, “Something awful has happened, but I’m not allowed to tell you till the others come, but it really is the limit and we’re all furious. Oh, I do wish they’d come. They are slow. I’ll go and hurry them up.” And she shot out of the room, leaving Hilary to imagine all the horrible things which could have happened. The ponies had looked all right, so they couldn’t have been kicked or anything like that; but perhaps the Major had said something about Rocket or Romany. At last she heard the sound of voices on the stairs.

Roger was evidently squashing Margaret. “It’s a good thing we’re not all slapdash speed-merchants like you,” he was saying. “At least we have time to see that our ponies have plenty of water.”

“What shall we do?” asked Evelyn, bursting into the room. “Noel Kettering’s got Romany.”

“What?” said Hilary, flabbergasted.

“Yes,” said Roger. “Noel Kettering of all people. It’s perfectly ludicrous. All one can think is that the Major has gone stark, staring mad.”

“Gosh,” said Hilary, “do you mean that he’s given Romany to Noel to school?”

“Apparently,” said Evelyn. “But he must have been drunk or something.”

“I bet she can’t jump as high as I can,” said Margaret. “And look how feeble she used to be—always falling off Topsy.”

“She’ll ruin Romany,” said Evelyn. “She couldn’t control her at all.”

“She was galloping all over the place,” said James. “She nearly knocked Darkie over. I gave her a look.”

“One thing is, that I should imagine that the Major’s regretting it already,” said Roger. “He kept taking Noel aside and explaining things to her.”

“Yes, but it didn’t seem to make much difference,” said Evelyn, “and I’m sure that she’s afraid of Romany. She didn’t jump her over anything but a pole on the ground, and considering that she can clear three feet six, I thought it pretty feeble.”

“I should think that Noel wishes she hadn’t got her,” said Margaret. “She was scarlet in the face the whole rally, and she had her arms pulled out all right.”

“But how do you suppose she got Romany?” asked Hilary. “Do you think she asked the Major if she could have her to school?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” said Evelyn. “But I didn’t think she was quite so conceited.”

“It’s an absolute insult,” said Roger, “to take a pony from us and give it to a complete beginner like Noel.”

“You should have seen June Cresswell’s face,” said Margaret.

“And she actually had the cheek to ask me if I’d been unable to manage Romany,” said Evelyn indignantly. “I was furious. I gave her a frightfully disdainful look and said, very coldly, ‘I never had the least difficulty in controlling her, I assure you, or I would certainly have asked for your valuable advice and assistance.’ ”

“You squashed her all right,” said Margaret. “She rode off without a word, didn’t she, Jim?”

“Yes,” said James. “The horrid conceited pig.”

“Grey Dawn didn’t behave too well,” said Roger. “The Major gave June a long lecture. What was it about? Did any one listen? It sounded much too complicated for me.”

“Oh, it was a lot of twaddle about collection,” said Evelyn impatiently. “I could have told him that it was pointless to try to teach the ponies that from the start. It’s such a waste of time when they’ll never be show ponies. Anyway, June’s gone and overdone it, which’ll mean another good pony spoilt through too much theory, I suppose.”

“Wasn’t it funny when Richard fell off?” said Margaret.

“You really have got a frightful sense of humour,” said Roger. “And next year, when you go to Woodbridge, you’ll be much worse; you’ll go into school-girlish hysterics over the games mistress’s figure.”

“I won’t,” said Margaret.

“Actually it was rather funny,” said Evelyn. “Only Roger is much too superior to laugh at anything but the kind of jokes that no one else can see.”

“I’m not,” said Roger. “I’ve got a perfectly normal sense of humour, but if you think falling off is funny I’m sorry for you, and at the next gymkhana you’d better join one of those crowds which scream with laughter every time a horse knocked down a jump and have hysterics when the riders fall off.”

“I didn’t say that falling off was funny,” said Evelyn. “It was this particular toss that Richard took which I thought funny, only you’re so jolly fond of the sound of your own voice that you never listen to what other people say.”

“Do stop arguing,” said Hilary, whose head was beginning to ache. “What happened to Richard, anyway?”

“Evelyn had better tell you; because, as no one ever listens to her, it’ll be quite a treat,” said Roger sarcastically.

“Oh, shut up,” said Evelyn. “You’re just in a foul temper because the Major told you, quite rightly, that you never use your legs.”

“Well, at least I don’t have to see Noel reschooling my pony,” said Roger. Evelyn seized a stuffed dog belonging to James, which was the first thing she saw, and hurled it at Roger. It hit him in the face, and he threw it back at her. James said that they were hurting Rover, and burst into a flood of tears. Margaret danced about, saying that James was a cry-baby and that Rover’s eyes were falling out. Evelyn and Roger were hurling insults as well as Rover at each other when the Doctor walked in. “Come out of there at once,” he shouted, to be heard above the uproar. “Don’t you realise that Hilary’s only just recovered from ’flu?” The noise stopped abruptly, except for James’ sniffs as he rescued Rover and searched for the missing eye.

“Now clear out of here,” said Dr. Radcliffe. “Mrs. Hunt has rung the gong three times and it serves you right if the tea’s cold.”

Richard’s mind was in a turmoil as he rode home, reliving the disasters of the day. They began on the way over to Folly Court when Rufus cast a shoe, a fact which June had pointed out to everyone on his arrival. The sight of so many other ponies had upset Rufus completely, and he had done nothing but plunge and buck. That feeble Noel Kettering had made him ten times worse by continually getting in his way on Romany, who she seemed quite unable to control. One consolation was, thought Richard, that, in spite of falling off, he hadn’t looked quite such a prize fool as Noel. He frowned angrily as he remembered the laughter which greeted him as he crawled out of the rhododendron bush into which Rufus had bucked him. Even Major Holbrooke had been grinning like an ape; not that one could expect much more from a horsy bore who read the Scarlet Pimpernel books, thought Richard scornfully. But it was a curse that Rufus had behaved so badly. He blushed as he thought of the time the other horse-breakers and Pony Club members would have discussing and tittering over Rufus’ manners. It was all very well for them, thought Richard; they had everything in their favour and then they hadn’t done so jolly well as they had expected. June had had a nasty shock, for, though Grey Dawn knew a tremendous lot and could do passes and all that sort of piffle, the Major had said that she overbent, and given June a long, boring lecture, to which no one, except Noel, had bothered to listen. When Richard had tried to relieve the monotony by telling John about his cycling tour with Michael Thorpington, the Major had told him to be quiet, and when, slightly later, he had started to tell John again, Major Holbrooke had said that if he, Richard, wanted to talk about cycling tours, he had better go home to his cycle shed, instead of preventing people who had come to the rally to learn about ponies from hearing. Altogether it had been a beastly rally, and Richard really wished that he had never had Rufus. He had spoilt the Christmas holidays, he was spoiling these holidays, and there was every sign that he would spoil the summer ones too. If it wasn’t for all the people, especially the girls, who would crow over him, Richard knew that he would gladly give up Rufus that very day. He rubbed his shoulder where he had fallen on it, and wondered how he could tactfully get rid of him. If he was going to ride he much preferred Peter, and he hadn’t time to ride both of them when Michael Thorpington was always inviting him to bicycling and bathing parties, which were much more fun than walking round and round the hen-run on a pony which might buck you off at any minute.

Noel spent the evening after the Pony Club rally wallowing in the depths of despair. Romany had behaved worse than she had thought possible, and herself had become so flustered that she had muddled the school figures even more hopelessly than usual. Though Major Holbrooke hadn’t said much more than “Keep calm,” or “Don’t lose your head,” Noel felt sure that he had decided that she was quite unteachable, and that any day she would get a letter asking her to return Romany. When, on Monday morning, she did get a letter addressed in a strange handwriting, it was a long time before she could screw up the courage to open it; but when at last she did, she discovered that it was from the Major. But, instead of a note about Romany, it contained a large sheet of paper, with the school figures neatly drawn on it. Noel was delighted; for obviously he did not intend to take Romany away, and now she would be able to learn the school figures perfectly by the summer holidays, ready for the Pony Club gymkhana, at which the test for the young ponies was to be held.

Mrs. Cresswell and June wrangled ceaselessly as they drove home in the car, with Grey Dawn behind in the trailer.

“It’s all very well for you to say that I should do this and that,” said June when her mother complained that she hadn’t used her legs enough. “You haven’t tried riding Dawn. She’s perfectly horrid: she’s got a short stride, nothing in front, and a badly-joined-on head, and then you expect me to make her go like a show pony. I bet that no one, not even Major Holbrooke himself—for all his conceit—could make her go any better.”

“Now, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “don’t be silly. I admit that Dawn’s not much to look at, but it’s no good laying all the blame on her. You know you haven’t been schooling her regularly—that’s the trouble. I don’t doubt your ability for a moment; it’s just that you’ve been getting slack. You’ve been resting on your laurels, and you can’t afford to do that, with all these children around chock-full of spite and jealousy. They’re all out to beat you, and you really mustn’t give them the satisfaction, my pet. It would be too humiliating, especially when it’s just through slackness.”

“It’s not, Mummy,” said June. “If I schooled that wooden-necked, cow-hocked, stupid animal every day for a year, she still wouldn’t know as much as Wonder. She’s common, and that’s all there is to it.”

“I will not be contradicted in this way,” said Mrs. Cresswell crossly. “You’ve got to school that pony, June. I’m not going to be made to look a fool through your laziness. If you can’t be bothered to ride her, I shan’t take you to the Thornton show next Saturday.”

John rode home from the rally feeling happier than he had for a long time. The Major had been awfully agreeable, and had said that Jet had improved immensely, and that he could see that John was keeping his side of the bargain. John had felt terribly embarrassed. He was quite sure he had blushed, but still the Major was quite right; he hadn’t lost his temper with Jet since that horrid day, the very thought of which made him go hot all over. It was also true that Jet had improved: she could jump grids and in-and-outs perfectly, she was much easier to keep straight than she used to be, and not nearly so nappy, besides being a faster walker and jolly good at turns on the forehand. John was glad that he had taken her to the rally, though he had had a job beforehand to decide between her and Turpin. Susan had been much more friendly than usual, he thought, as he unsaddled Jet. She had invited him to tea at the Towers, and also to school Jet with Sunset and Romany whenever he liked, which John thought would be a nice change from riding alone. Susan and Noel weren’t bad; at least they didn’t spend their time pointing out one’s faults and mistakes like that conceited ass, Richard Morrisson.

Susan was vaguely dissatisfied that she had ridden Beauty at the rally, for Sunset had been the only young pony absent, and Susan felt that she would have liked to have compared her with the others, though at heart she knew that Sunset was behind everyone but Rufus and Romany. Susan also had an uncomfortable feeling that Noel jumped Beauty better than she did, for she had had four faults over the same course that Noel had jumped clear at the last rally. Not that Noel had managed Romany very well; in fact not nearly so well as Evelyn, which was queer, thought Susan, considering the hours she spent schooling and reading those dreadful dry books. As she gave Beauty to Bob and hurried indoors, Susan thought of her tea party. Romany might be able to join in races by then, and perhaps she would let John have a ride on Beauty.

Chapter IX

THE SUMMER TERM passed quickly as usual. The horse-breakers who were lucky enough to be at day schools devoted most of their time schooling their ponies in frenzied preparation for the fast-approaching Pony Club gymkhana.

Only the thought of boring Romany prevented Noel from schooling her every evening as well as at the week-ends. She was determined to do better at the gymkhana than she had at the rally, and though she was often disheartened when Romany behaved extra badly, she was, on the whole, pleased with her improvement. At first she had had rather a dull time, riding the school figures at the walk and trot in a rubber snaffle, and back-reining Romany each time she got out of control. Then half-way through the term she began to canter and jump her. Jumping took a lot of patience, for Romany would get wildly excited and gallop about the field. But walking over a pole on the ground had a quietening effect, and gradually Noel was able to raise the jumps. As the holidays drew near, she saved her pocket money to add to some convenient birthday presents, with which she was going to buy a double bridle. She was determined that Romany should not be behind the other ponies because she hadn’t the proper tack.

Richard came home from school with a new craze—architecture—and, as usual, everything had to be given up for it. Rufus was a bore, Major Holbrooke a pest, and the Pony Club gymkhana a waste of time. When his mother lectured him on his lack of perseverance, he said that she wanted him to be a horsy nitwit like June Cresswell, and he was hanged if he would. Each morning he mounted his bicycle and pedalled off in search of Roman remains, Norman churches, or Gothic arches, and in the evenings he read guide-books to find more buildings of architectural interest. Every day he put off schooling Rufus until the next.

John, helping to get in the early harvest, generally had to school Jet after dinner, but luckily the evenings were long, and his parents didn’t bother about what time he went to bed. Jet was improving rapidly, but John didn’t feel competent to ride her in a double bridle. In spite of Major Holbrooke’s lectures, he still didn’t see why collection was necessary or how the bits worked, and he decided that it was better not to mess about with things one didn’t understand. It wasn’t until the second week of the holidays that he rode over to the Towers to see how Noel and Susan were getting on. He found them studying the diagrams of the school figures which Major Holbrooke had sent Noel.

“Gosh,” said John, when he saw what they were about, “don’t you get enough geometry at school?”

“Don’t take Susan’s part,” said Noel. “We must know the beastly things by the gymkhana.”

“I certainly do, John,” said Susan. “But Noel is such a bully—she’s worse than any form mistress. But you’d better look out or you’ll get dragged in too.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Noel, blushing. “You know that you needn’t learn them if you don’t want to, but you always say that you do.”

“All right, all right,” said Susan. “I was only trying to be funny, but let’s get on, for it’ll soon be lunch-time, and we must have a jumping competition now that John’s here.”

“That’ll be super,” said John. “I want to compare Jet with your ponies, but I bet she’s miles behind; it’s such a curse being away at school.”

“Yes,” said Noel sympathetically, “it must be beastly.”

“Thank goodness mummy disapproves of boarding schools,” said Susan.

“I’ve only got ten more days to catch up in,” said John gloomily. “I’m sure I’ll never do it.”

“Don’t talk about it,” said Noel. “I’ve got the needle already.”

“Oh, Noel, you can’t have it yet,” said Susan. “Ten days is simply ages.”

“I can’t help that,” said Noel. “I’ve got the needle; I have it every night in bed. It’s all very well for you; Sunset is quite decently schooled and fairly reliable, but Romany knows nothing, and goodness knows how she’ll behave at the gymkhana.”

“Rot,” said John. “I bet she knows a jolly sight more than Jet, or Rufus for that matter.”

“Does Richard ever ride Rufus?” asked Susan.

“I dunno,” said John. “Not much, I think. You see, he’s always having crazes; in the Christmas holidays it was stamps, last holidays it was cycling, and now I hear it’s remains.”

“Remains?” said Susan. “Remains of what?”

“You know,” said John. “Old churches and things; awfully dull.”

“He’d get on well with my father,” said Noel. “That’s all he’s interested in.”

“Golly! How terrible for you,” said Susan. “I’d rather have daddy, though he always talks about shoes, they’re better than remains.”

“Oh, no,” said Noel. “Shoes are sordid. I’m not interested in fossils or anything like that, but I love Georgian houses and Jacobite battlefields.”

“Ugh! History,” said Susan.

“Come on,” said John. “If we’re going to jump, we’d better start.”

Jet won the jumping contest with one fault over a two-feet-six course, and Sunset was second with two refusals at different jumps. Romany had four faults for knocking down the last jump with her fore-legs. Then Susan and John decided to have some races, and Noel was persuaded to join in, against her better judgment. Romany became thoroughly over-excited: she kicked the bucket over in the potato race and refused to stop at the poles to allow Noel to grab the potatoes. In the saddling-up race she galloped off, bucking with Noel half-on, and, of course Noel fell off. But, worst of all, she broke three of Susan’s poles in the bending race.

John’s and Susan’s obviously tactful attempts to find excuses for Romany’s bad behaviour made Noel feel more crestfallen than ever, and as she rode homewards she wondered what Major Holbrooke would say when Romany behaved like this at the Pony Club gymkhana. His cousin would be there, she supposed, and all the people who usually judged, besides hundreds of spectators and competitors, and everyone would say pityingly that Noel Kettering would never make a horsewoman and that the Major must have been mad to let her have Romany. Probably the cousin would be so furious when he saw his best-looking pony completely ruined that he would have a terrific row with the Major there and then, and it would all be her fault for being such a hopeless mixture of conceit and feebleness.

“If only she wouldn’t spend so much time bothering over the school figures and the correct aids for everything,” said Susan to John as Noel rode out of the gate. “Why doesn’t she just ride Romany about until she gets sensible, as the rest of us did with our ponies, and leave the theory to June?”

“Romany was spoilt when Noel had her,” said John. “She might have stood a chance if she had had Sunset or Jet, but it was rough luck getting somebody else’s cast off.”

“Yes, but if Noel had had her way I wouldn’t be teaching Sunset collection,” said Susan. “She would have kept her at those horrid balancing exercises for ever. Then she always says I overface Sunset, but she jumped better than Romany to-day.”

“Of course I haven’t got Jet in a double bridle yet,” said John.

“That’s not your fault,” said Susan. “You’ve been away at school, but Noel’s had all the term, and she’s only just got a double bridle.”

“Well, I suppose it’s her affair,” said John. “And, personally, I can’t see much point in all this wretched collection. I’m quite satisfied with Turpin, and he couldn’t collect to save his life.”

“But you must teach Jet to collect,” said Susan, “or you won’t have an earthly against June, honestly you won’t, and we’re all relying on you to beat her if Hilary doesn’t.”

“What a thing to rely on,” said John, trying not to sound pleased. “But don’t you worry; I know I haven’t the ghost of a chance. June first, Hilary second, you third—that’s how I’d place them.”

“Oh, no,” said Susan. “I shan’t be anywhere.”

There had been unpleasantness among the Radcliffes about their entries right up to the eve of the gymkhana. As they cleaned their tack they still argued.

“All you people think about is yourselves,” complained Evelyn. “You don’t care about the honour of the stable. I tell you Darkie won’t be anywhere if Jim rides her; if he must enter why can’t he have Rocket, Hilary? You know that he hasn’t a chance either.”

“I know,” said Hilary, “but I still want to ride him and, even if Doc. would let him, Jim doesn’t want to. Anyway it’s a well-known fact that you shouldn’t put an inexperienced pony and rider together and you couldn’t have a less experienced pair than Jim and Rocket.”

“Well, you jump both ponies,” said Evelyn. “Jim’s sure to fall off.”

“Nonsense,” said Roger.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Hilary. “I should feel frightfully mean jumping two ponies when Jim hadn’t one. Besides, what does it matter if he does come off? He’s got to begin riding in shows some time, you know.”

“Oh, all right then, have it your own way,” said Evelyn disagreeably. “But it’ll mean another walkover for June, with Clarrissa second.”

“We shall survive that,” said Roger. “So far you’re the only pot-hunter in the family; it won’t worry the rest of us much.”

“Do you think Pixie’s got a chance?” asked Margaret, unintentionally tactful.

“About as much as the rest of the family, which is none at all,” said Evelyn.

“If she jumped really well she might get reserve again,” said Hilary. “But she’s too small to compete against Golden Wonder and Sweet William; even if she did a clear round, they’d beat her in the jump off.”

“I shall will them not to do clear rounds. Jim and I have a way,” said Margaret. “It works sometimes, doesn’t it, Jim?”

“It nearly did in the bending last year,” said James.

“What do you do?” asked Roger. “Make waxworks of the competitors and stick pins into them at vital moments?”

“No,” said Margaret. “It’s a secret, isn’t it, Jim?”

“Yes, definitely,” said James. “If we tell anyone, it won’t work.”

“Oh, Evelyn,” said Hilary, “you’ve spilt whitening all over my saddle.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Evelyn. “But you can’t grumble, because you did tread on my reins.”

“How can I clean my tack when there’s no saddle soap?” asked Richard in a melodramatic voice as he flung himself despairingly on the drawing-room sofa.

“Well, whose fault is that?” asked his mother tartly.

“I suppose Jill finished it while I was away at school,” said Richard. “How like a girl not to get any more!”

“I didn’t finish it,” said Jill. “I never cleaned Wendy’s tack in the term. You threw the soap away in the middle of last holidays because you wanted the tin to boil glue in.”

“Well, you ought to have cleaned Wendy’s tack in the term, then we should have known that there wasn’t any saddle soap,” said Richard.

“I’ve cleaned Wendy’s tack later than you’ve cleaned Peter’s,” said Jill. “You haven’t cleaned his since the very beginning of the Easter holidays, and I did clean Wendy’s half-way through.”

“It’s easier for you,” said Richard. “You’re a girl and girls like cleaning things. Anyway, you have much more time, and Wendy’s tack is much easier. A mere felt saddle and a snaffle without a noseband—that shouldn’t take you five minutes.”

“Girls don’t like cleaning things,” said Jill. “And even if my tack is easier, you’re older than I am, so you ought to be quicker.”

“Children,” said Mrs. Morrisson angrily, “if you don’t stop arguing, you’ll go straight to bed, and if I hadn’t paid all the expensive entry fees, you wouldn’t go to the show to-morrow. Two more ungrateful children I’ve never known. You’ve got ponies, bicycles, and countless other toys and amusements, but all you do is to grumble and quarrel.”

“I don’t,” said Richard. “It’s Jill.”

“You liar,” said Jill. “I never quarrel or grumble when you’re away at school. Do I, Mummy?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Richard. “Well, anyway, I never quarrel with the chaps at school; it’s just that you’re a girl, and a jolly feeble one too.”

“I hate you,” said Jill. “And I bet Peter and Rufus do too. I bet that they’d like to kick you into little pieces, and I hope they both buck you off to-morrow.”

“Thanks very much,” said Richard. “I’m not going to argue with you; you’re too childish. Run along and play, dear.” And, picking up the latest copy of Punch, he began to look through it.

“Well, I’m going to clean my tack with something, even if it’s only shoe-polish,” said Jill. “And I hope that Major Holbrooke gives you a jolly long lecture on the state of yours.” And she ran out of the room, slamming the door.

Mrs. Cresswell and June rose early on the morning of the gymkhana. Wilson, the groom-gardener, hadn’t arrived when they went out to the stables, but they fed both the ponies and started to groom them. At least Mrs. Cresswell did. June’s part in the proceedings was limited mainly to criticism of her mother’s work. By eight o’clock, when Wilson came, Wonder had had her socks washed and Grey Dawn had practically been bathed, and they were left in his charge while Mrs. Cresswell and June had breakfast. Afterwards Mrs. Cresswell plaited Grey Dawn, while Wilson body-brushed Golden Wonder and June watched.

“Oh, Mummy,” she said when the first plait was finished, “it’s all bristly. Look at those bits of hair sticking up.”

“All right, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “I’ll undo it and try again presently.”

“Mummy,” wailed June when the second plait was finished, “they’re so fat that they look like the Radcliffes’—simply awful.”

“I know, darling,” said Mrs. Cresswell patiently. “But her mane is so terribly thick; it’s not like Wonder’s, you know.”

“Beastly common animal,” said June. “I’m glad it’s not a big show. I shouldn’t like to be seen dead on her by Priscilla Exemouth or the Fredericks or any of the other people who ride at decent shows.”

“Nonsense, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. She’s not your pony, and everyone knows that you only broke her in for fun.”

“Well, after to-day I needn’t ride her any more, thank goodness,” said June. “I’ll just get that red rosette on her bridle and then I’ll say ‘good riddance to bad rubbish’ and send her back to the Major. He’ll sell her to a complete beginner, which’ll ruin her, but I shan’t care; it’s all she’s fit for, and I’m never going to mount anything but a thoroughbred or blood pony again.”

“You’re getting over-excited, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “Would you like to go and lie down for a while?”

“Oh, Mummy,” said June, “you are stupid. Of course I’m not over-excited; I’m not even excited over a potty little show like this one. I know that it’ll be a walk-over for me, so what is there to get excited about? It’s not even as though the cups will be very big.”

“Pride comes before a fall, they say,” said Wilson. “And if you go on stuffing that grey pony with oats she will ’ave you off. You mark my words, Miss June.”

“You don’t know anything about it, Wilson,” said June rudely. “If Dawn doesn’t have plenty of oats she hasn’t enough impulsion, and I can’t collect her. Anyway, I shouldn’t come off for a few bucks; I’m not Noel Kettering.”

“Ah, you take care,” said Wilson. “Major ’Olbrooke’s ’ead man, Blake, was saying down in the Plough the other night as ’ow she’d come on amazing—that’s what ’e said, amazing.”

“She needs to,” said June. “She was careering all over the place at the last rally on that dreadful skewbald pony which Evelyn Radcliffe spoiled.”

The gymkhana, which was held in the park at Folly Court, started punctually. It was uncomfortably hot even at eleven o’clock, when the competitors for the first class, which was to decide which was the best trained of the New Forest ponies, walked into the ring. June, as usual, led the way. Thanks to Mrs. Cresswell’s washing, Grey Dawn’s coat was dazzling. Her plaits, in spite of June’s criticisms, were the best in the class, and her tack had been cleaned up to Richmond standard by Wilson. But something was lacking. Grey Dawn did not step out proudly to show off her smartness, nor were her ears pricked, or her eyes alive with interest. She dawdled, and each time June kicked her, with the heel on the side that the judges couldn’t see, she swished her tail. Perhaps this can hardly be wondered at, for she had been schooled five or six days a week since the Pony Club rally, when June had made her mother “feel a fool.” Close behind Grey Dawn walked Jet. John’s arms still ached from the grooming, and his fingers were sore from the pricks they had got as he plaited her, but it was worth it; and though the plaits might not be as neat as June’s or some of the others in the class, it was the first time he had tried, and he felt justly proud. The only thing he regretted was not trying Jet in a double bridle, for she looked very undressed—the only one of the six in a snaffle.

Richard, who followed John, had put Rufus in Peter’s pelham, which was too broad in the mouthpiece as well as stiff and dirty. Beside the other ponies Rufus looked very untidy. The ten minutes which Richard had allowed for grooming him had been ignored by five years of dust and dirt; his mane was unplaited, and there were several burrs in his tail. Sweating from the gallop Richard had given him to get his back down, with his head low and his eyes dull and sulky, he was a forlorn sight, and looked more like an old pony than a young one. Rocket was a striking contrast: his golden coat shone like a ripe cornfield, and his plaits were only second in neatness to Grey Dawn’s. He walked briskly, looking about him with pricked ears and an air of complete confidence. After Rocket came Sunset. Her coat shone, but not with such brilliance; Bob’s breakfast had seemed more important to him. Her plaits were lumpy, and one was already coming unsewn, but her tack was clean and shining, especially the curb-chain, which Susan had taken to bed with her for its final polish. Sunset’s broad blaize gave her a look of placid contentment which was not belied by her manner. Last of all, and quite a long way behind the others, came Romany. She was excited; she wouldn’t walk, but jogged and went sideways. In spite of wearing nothing but an aertex shirt, Noel was becoming more hot and bothered with every moment. “Walk, Romany, walk,” she muttered, wishing that such things as gymkhanas did not exist. But Romany felt too excited to walk. Her rich chestnut parts shone, her white parts sparkled as she bounced round the ring. Her plaits—there were three chestnut and three white—were untidy, but her double bridle, which had spent most of its short life in neet’s-foot oil, shone brightly.

Major Holbrooke, his cousin, Colonel Shelbourne, and the three judges, Lady Wrench, Captain Barton, and Sir William Blount, stood in the middle of the ring looking critically at the competitors. The spectators hurried to the ringside, interested to see the fruits of the horse-breakers’ labours, and the gymkhana had really begun.

Good gracious, thought Mrs. Cresswell, some of them have come on. June must be careful, and she felt quite ill as she saw how unwillingly Grey Dawn was going.

“Doesn’t Rocket look lovely?” said James Radcliffe.

“Much the nicest pony there,” agreed Margaret.

“There’s Romany,” said Evelyn. “She looks quite different. I’m sure she’s grown. But why is Noel hanging back like that? She ought to be in the lead. Wait for the others to come round again,” she shouted to Noel as she passed. “You must take the lead.”

“O.K.,” said Noel, pulling Romany up and waiting. June was annoyed when she saw what Noel was doing, though actually it was to her advantage, for Dawn was nappy and followed better than she led. Once Romany was in the lead she settled down and walked out with her longest stride, peeping coyly at the judges to see if they were admiring her. When the order to trot was given, Noel was filled with alarm. She began to wish that she hadn’t taken the lead; she felt sure that she would do something silly; then she remembered Romany. She used her legs and felt the curb rein.

Jet was going well, thought John. Of course he hadn’t a chance, because she didn’t collect, but he felt sure that the Major would be pleased with her, and that, after all, was the main thing.

“Canter on,” said one of the judges. All the competitors remembered the diagonal aids, and all the ponies, except Rufus, who had never been taught, remembered what they meant. Suddenly the people at the back of the line found themselves overtaking the ones in front. Romany and Grey Dawn cantered too slowly for the rest of them. Rufus put his head down and started to pull—he galloped, passed everyone, and took the lead. John, Hilary, and Susan passed Noel and June. Soon they were told to walk, and then they were all called into the centre. They lined up in no particular order, though June was careful to put herself at the top. Noel was between Susan and Hilary.

“I got Sunset on the right leg,” Susan told her joyfully. “She was going awfully well. How did you get on?”

“Not too badly,” said Noel. “Romany was rather excited at first, but she’s calmed down now.”

“One can hardly recognise her,” said Hilary from the other side. “She’s much taller and not nearly so weedy. I’ve never seen her in a double bridle before; it suits her.”

“Aren’t my plaits awful?” said Noel as Captain Barton came up to ask June to give a show. Now I’ll surprise them, thought June. So far she hadn’t paid much attention to the other competitors, but she felt quite sure that they had made complete fools of themselves as usual, and, full of confidence, she gave Grey Dawn a kick and rode out from the line. Grey Dawn wanted to be nappy. She edged towards the other ponies, but June kicked her into a canter, and saying angrily, “Come on, you stupid, lazy animal,” rode a figure of eight. Though Dawn dropped her nose and flexed her lower jaw, she did it without energy or impulsion. Her hocks trailed out behind her, and when June gave her the aid to change legs she only changed in front.

“Disunited!” said Noel in surprise.

“What?” said Hilary.

“Is she?” asked Susan, both at once.

“I think so,” said Noel, overcome with embarrassment on finding that she had spoken aloud. June pulled up and backed.

“Her head’s too low,” said Susan of Grey Dawn.

“Yes,” said Hilary. “I believe it is. In fact she looks over-bent to me.” John, who was next in the line, wracked his brain for an original show. Richard hit Rufus, who was trying to graze.

“What is she trying to do now?” asked Hilary as Grey Dawn ran backwards across the ring.

“A turn on the haunches, I think,” said Noel. “They should never be attempted by beginners,” she added with a grin at Susan.

“Well, it doesn’t look much like one,” said Susan. “Not that I shall do any better.” June finished her show by riding passes at the walk, trot and canter, but, because Grey Dawn was behind the bit, her quarters were inclined to lead her forehand, which, of course, spoiled them completely.

“Next, please,” shouted Captain Barton as June cantered back to her place.

“Gosh, it’s me,” said John, riding forward.

“Good luck,” said Susan. John gave a watery grin as he trotted off. He cantered a circle to either hand, pulling up to change legs in the middle. He back-reined, turned on the forehand, dismounted and mounted. Jet stood perfectly, and finally jumped the brush fence very neatly.

“That was jolly good,” said Hilary in a surprised voice, and she tried to think of some more things for Rocket to do. Richard was supposed to follow John, but Rufus didn’t want to leave the other ponies, and each time Richard got him away he charged back with his mouth open and his head down. Richard’s face became red with rage and exertion as he tugged at the reins and kicked furiously, well aware that he was being made to look a complete fool, a disaster he dreaded nearly as much as Mrs. Cresswell. But he was unable to get Rufus under control, and after a few minutes Sir William waved to him to stop, and called for the next person. Richard’s feelings can be imagined, and while the other competitors gave their shows, he sat slumped in the saddle, feeling himself a target for hundreds of scornful eyes and trying to think of excuses.

Susan, who followed Richard, started badly. Flustered, because she was called sooner than she had expected, she gave Sunset a terrific kick. Sunset leaped forward into a canter. Susan looked for the leading leg and cantered a circle on it, then she pulled up to canter on the other leg. Unfortunately, Sunset didn’t change, and, worse still, she didn’t notice that she hadn’t, but cantered gaily round until Noel shouted to her as she passed, then she pulled up and started again. Afterwards she turned on the forehand and backed. Now it was Noel’s turn. As she had watched the other horse-breakers’ shows, she gradually became sure that hers was too difficult. Considering the mistakes each person was making, she felt that it was conceited of her to suppose that she could possibly accomplish the show that she had mapped out. “You’ve bitten off more than you can chew,” she told herself. But it was too late to make any alterations. Captain Barton had called her for the third time. Suddenly her needle, which had been growing worse each moment, disappeared; she rode forward at the extended walk, changed to the collected walk, then the collected trot. She cantered a figure of eight, Romany made a perfect flying change. Noel patted her, overjoyed, for this was where she had feared a mistake. Pulling up, she back-reined, and rode full passes at the walk to either side, and half-passes at the walk, trot and canter. Romany’s collection was effortless, and it was obvious to everyone that she and Noel were in perfect time. As they cantered back to their place, there was scattered applause from the few onlookers who had been interested enough to come before lunch. Hilary, the only competitor left to give a show, had felt fairly confident of success until she had seen Noel’s performance. Now this was shattered. She trotted out from the end of the line, feeling sure that, however well Rocket went, she could only be second. She walked a circle, cantered a figure of eight, pulling up to change legs; she turned on the forehand, back-reined, and started straight off into a canter. To finish, she jumped the stile.

“Jolly good,” said Susan as Hilary came back to her place.

“Thank goodness it’s over,” said Hilary. “I think Noel’s got it, don’t you?”

“Me?” said Noel in surprise. “Of course not. You, John, June, I should think.”

“I do wish they’d hurry up,” said Susan.

“I believe they keep us in suspense on purpose,” said Hilary. “Perhaps they think it’s good for our characters.”

“I can’t imagine what Noel’s done to her,” said Evelyn, of Romany, to her family. “She looks quite different—almost like a show pony. Honestly, I can hardly believe my eyes.”

“She goes just like one of Major Holbrooke’s horses,” said Margaret. “But I’m sure Noel can’t have schooled her. I’m positive she’s been helped.”

“Marga,” said Roger, “you’ll be saying that it’s not fair next.”

“I shan’t,” said Margaret. “But it does look fishy, doesn’t it, Evelyn?”

“Shut up,” said Evelyn crossly.

“Why should I?” asked Margaret. “Surely a person can speak if they want to.”

“Not on such controversial matters in public—it’s tactless,” said Roger.

Mrs. Cresswell stood by her car at the ringside, twisting her fingers together in suspense. In her heart she knew that June had lost, but it was too late now to do anything—too late to avert the disaster that was upon them. The things that might have made a difference flitted through her mind in an endless, mournful procession. But the horrid fact remained: the only thing now that could make the judges award June the coveted first prize would be force of habit. As she watched Noel, Hilary, and John lined up, Mrs. Cresswell felt furious. It was only spite, she thought, that had urged them to improve their riding. They had all been determined to make June look a fool, and as the steward crossed the ring with the rosettes, she hoped that they were satisfied.

No one was more surprised than Noel herself when Lady Wrench handed her the red rosette.

“Gosh,” she said, “is this for me?” And when she was told that it was, “Thanks awfully.” As Hilary was given the blue rosette and John the yellow, it gradually dawned on Noel that she had won the best trained of the New Forest ponies’ class, she who had been afraid to ask for a pony and had certainly never dared to hope that Romany would even be third. But what had happened to June? she wondered. It was absurd that she, Noel, who a year ago had been falling off Topsy every time she swerved, should be placed above June. The fact of the matter was, she supposed, that there was something about Romany which made her easier to school; she had better natural balance, perhaps, and it wouldn’t have mattered who had schooled her—except Richard, of course—she would still have won.

“Well done, you three,” said Major Holbrooke when Lady Wrench had finished presenting the rosettes. “I’m very pleased with you, especially Noel.” Noel blushed furiously—the Major had never said anything so complimentary before—and patted Romany to hide her confusion.

“This is my cousin, Colonel Shelbourne,” the Major added, and, pushing him forward, “Go on, Harry, say something.” Cousin Harry, who was a stupid, kindly looking man, in spite of his soldierly figure and walrus moustache, seemed rather nervous. “By jove,” he began, and the Pony Club members hastily riveted their attention on their ponies’ ears and tried not to giggle. “You’ve done wonders, all of you. If every child’s pony was as well trained as these, we’d have a great many better child riders. I don’t know all the ins and outs of schooling myself, but I do know a well-schooled pony when I see one, and I’ve seen three to-day. I hope that you will never forget the lessons which you have learned from these ponies and my cousin, and that you will all break and school many more ponies and horses just as successfully.” The Colonel mopped his brow as he finished speaking, and, turning to Major Holbrooke, said, “ ’Fraid I’m not much of an orator, George, but I hope that will do.”

“Yes, Harry,” said Major Holbrooke. “It was an excellent speech; you covered everything, and now I am sure that the children would like me to thank you for giving us this opportunity by entrusting us with your ponies.”

“Yes, rather,” said Hilary and Susan.

“Gosh, yes,” said John.

“Thanks awfully,” said Noel. Richard and June didn’t say anything. Neither of them ever wanted to see a New Forest pony again, and they felt that the only thing they could thank Cousin Harry for was the humiliation that was upon them.

“Well, I think that’s everything,” said Major Holbrooke, “so perhaps we could go on to the next event.”

Noel led the canter round the ring and Romany, who seemed to know that everyone was looking at her, went beautifully. Her gay carriage and shining skewbald coat earned her extra applause from the fast-growing groups of spectators. Once out of the ring, all the horse-breakers, except Noel, hastily mounted their own ponies, for the next event was the showing class for ponies under 14.2 ridden by children under fourteen years.

“I’m determined not to go on the wrong leg this time,” Susan told Noel as they waited in the collecting ring. “I let Sunset down, but I mustn’t do the same to Beauty.”

“It might have happened to any one,” said Noel, who was entering Romany in the showing for fun. “And, if you ask me,” she went on, “winning is mostly luck. Look what a fluke it was Romany getting first! Rocket and Jet, if not Sunset and Grey Dawn, must be better schooled than she is.”

“That’s rot,” said John, who was beside them on Turpin. “Any one could see that she was the best-schooled pony in the class. I heard Mrs. Cresswell telling Mrs. Holbrooke,” he went on, “that she had allowed June to hot Dawn up too much, because she had thought the ponies were to be children’s mounts, and that she hardly thought Romany would be suitable.”

“And didn’t June look furious?” said Susan. “I’m sure she expected to win.”

“Oh, dear,” said Noel, “I shall be unpopular. Do you think it was really unfair?”

“Of course not,” said John.

“Will class two come into the ring at once, please, instead of gossiping?” shouted the collecting steward.

“Gosh,” said Noel, “where’s June? She always leads.”

“Go on, Noel, you idiot,” shouted Evelyn from behind—she was showing Northwind. Collecting her scattered wits, Noel rode into the ring, but before she had gone far Captain Barton began to shout and wave his arms.

“What did you say?” Noel shouted back.

“Go round to the right,” he shouted again.

“Which way?” asked Noel stupidly, wondering what on earth he was talking about.

“The opposite way, you idiot,” said Evelyn. Behind, half the competitors had turned round and were going the other way. Pixie and Martin Minton’s pony, Sir Galahad, were having a kicking match.

“Change the rein, Noel,” shouted Major Holbrooke. “She doesn’t know her right from left, Julian,” he told Captain Barton.

“Really, Holbrooke,” said Sir William, “I do think you might teach the Pony Club members that before allowing them to embark on the finer points of equitation.”

“My dear man,” said Major Holbrooke, “I’ve tried and failed. If you’d like to take her on you’re welcome. But, personally, I’d rather teach a cart-horse haute école.”

Noel was feeling very depressed. Oh, dear, she thought, I am stupid. Of course one always goes round this way in a showing class. Why did that beast Evelyn make me lead? She might have known that I would only do something silly.

“Wake up, Noel,” said Evelyn’s voice. “He said trot on.”

The judges soon collected a long back row, and when there were only seven competitors left cantering round, they called them in and told them to line up.

“Is this the back row?” Noel asked Richard, who was beside her.

“Of course not,” he said. “Use your eyes. Can’t you see that June’s here?”

“Oh,” said Noel, squashed, but still wondering what stroke of fate or fortune had got her there. Perhaps the judges hadn’t noticed her, or, horrid thought, perhaps they had told her to go to the back row ages ago and she hadn’t heard. She looked wildly round; she might be able to get there without any one noticing. She started to turn Romany, but the Major had seen her indecisive backward glances. “Stay where you are, Noel,” he said.

June and Golden Wonder gave an excellent show, and Susan, who followed them, changed legs perfectly. Charles French, who was riding Mrs. Maxton’s Billy Boy, and Felicity Rate on Tinker, were both hopeless. No one could understand what they were trying to do. Mary Compton’s weak seat spoiled Blackbird’s chance as usual; and then it was Noel’s turn. Once more she rode a figure of eight, passes, and back-reined; once more Romany behaved beautifully.

“Jolly good,” said Susan as Noel rode back to her place. Richard was the last person to give a show. Surprisingly, he rode Peter—who was rather lazy—well, and put up a far better performance than Charles French, though he had the better pony.

It seemed to the competitors that the judges talked endlessly before they made up their minds. Then, to everyone’s amazement, Susan and Beauty were placed above June, and Noel crept up to third, while Richard was reserve. Susan’s delight knew no bounds. She patted Beauty profusely and thanked Lady Wrench for her rosette three times. Noel didn’t dare look at June. She felt sorry for her. It must be awful, she thought, to lose one’s assured position so abruptly, and the poem about the statue of King Charles at Charing Cross came into her mind. Meanwhile Lady Wrench had asked her twice whether Romany had ever been to a gymkhana before.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Noel, suddenly realising that she was being spoken to. “At least—I mean—I know she hasn’t.”

“I think she does you great credit, then,” said Lady Wrench as she handed Noel the yellow rosette. “You ought to be proud of her.”

“Thanks awfully,” said Noel, going scarlet in the face and hoping that she didn’t look conceited.

During the lunch interval which followed the showing class, the mistakes and surprises of the morning were discussed.

“I told you that it would happen,” said Mrs. Cresswell to June. “And now it has. They’ve made you look a fool—to be beaten at a little show like this when you’ve won at Richmond.”

“Well, you can ride Wonder at the next show if you think that you can make her beat Beauty,” said June. “It’s not my fault that Mr. Barington-Brown is richer than you are and can buy Susan a better pony than Wonder. Everything is easy if you’re rich.”

“But riding must count, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell.

“I expect the judges favoured Susan, then,” said June. “Probably Mr. Barington-Brown bribed them.”

“You mustn’t say things like that, darling, however likely they seem,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “And, though I admit that the result of the showing class left room for a matter of opinion, the class for the New Forest ponies didn’t. There was never a moment of doubt. That dreadful Kettering child—who still hasn’t got a riding-coat—had the skewbald going like a show hack, and though John Manners didn’t do anything spectacular, his pony knew what it did know thoroughly, and seemed quiet and well mannered. But you, my pet, I really was disappointed. Running backwards all over the ring, cantering disunited, and Grey Dawn’s head carriage was just appalling—there’s no other word for it. We shall be the laughing-stock of the whole county.”

“Nonsense, Mummy,” said June rudely. “Why should any one laugh? There’s nothing funny about it. I can’t help it if Grey Dawn is so stupid and clumsy. After all, you were there and helped choose her.”

“Now, darling, that sort of talk won’t get us anywhere,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “The only thing you can do is to take care to win the jumping this afternoon and do better at the next show.”

Dr. Radcliffe was greeted by shouts from Margaret when he arrived on the show ground with the lunch. “Romany was first and Rocket second,” she yelled. “But I bet Major Holbrooke helped Noel,” she added, looking defiantly at Roger.

“I thought that he helped everyone,” said Dr. Radcliffe, and turned to congratulate Hilary. Just as they were about to begin their lunch, the Radcliffes discovered that Evelyn was missing and Roger noticed her riding Romany on the other side of the ring.

“Gosh,” said Margaret, “do you think she asked Noel for a ride? She is a nuisance. We wanted to have a blood feud, didn’t we, Jim?”

“Yes,” said James. “We had thought of nine different ways to murder her.”

“You bloodthirsty ruffians,” said Dr. Radcliffe, who seemed to be in a good humour, “you’re not a very sportsmanlike family, are you? But I suppose it’s having your mother’s red hair.”

“I wonder if the next one will have it,” said Hilary. “I hope so. Everybody knows who we are by it.”

“You don’t need the hair to tell a Radcliffe,” said the Doctor. “You can hear them a mile off.”

“But what’s it going to be called, Doc.?” asked Margaret.

“Well, your mother hopes it’ll be a boy, to even the family off,” replied Dr. Radcliffe. “If it is, he’s to be called Andrew, but if it’s a girl, she’ll either be Janet or Frances.”

“Not Janet,” said Hilary. “There’s a frightful girl at Woodbridge called Janet. She sucks sweets the whole time, and has crushes on the games mistress.”

“School, school, school!” said Roger. “Surely you can spare us in the holidays.”

“Now, Roger, don’t be difficult,” said Dr. Radcliffe. “She only mentioned it; you really can’t grumble at that.”

“She might have gone on if I hadn’t stopped her,” said Roger.

“We certainly don’t want another boy in the family,” said Hilary. “Two are quite enough.”

“It’ll be lovely having someone younger than me,” said James. “I shall be able to squash him. That will be a nice change.”

“You mean you’ll have to look after him and rescue him from the duck-pond every five minutes,” said Hilary. “Younger brothers and sisters are an awful bore, I can tell you.”

Evelyn had surprised herself by finding that she could talk quite agreeably to Noel. It was true that it was Noel who had started the conversation. Passing Evelyn on the way out of the ring, she had stopped to thank her for her instructions, without which, she said, she might not have done so well.

“Nonsense,” said Evelyn. “Of course you would, but you always creep about at the back, and I happen to know that Romany goes much better in the lead. But what I want to know is how you managed to improve her so much between the last Pony Club rally and to-day?”

“Well, I only go to Pinelands, you see, so I’m able to ride in the evenings as well as at the week-ends—rather unfair really,” said Noel.

“But just riding wouldn’t have done it,” said Evelyn. “I meant what schooling? How did you teach her to collect and all that sort of thing?”

“Just as the Major told us,” said Noel. “You know, those ghastly school figures: riding up and down hills, lungeing, and all the twisting and turning exercises that I could think of; besides pulling up and backing when she got out of control. Then, when she seemed fairly well balanced, I put her in a double bridle and did the same things all over again. That was rather depressing, because we never seemed to get any further. But all at once she started to collect, and then everything was easy, though I found changing legs and passes a bit complicated, for, as you know, I can’t tell my right from left, and it makes it awfully difficult to work out the aids.”

“It sounds easy,” said Evelyn. “But of course it isn’t. It’s queer, you suddenly coming out like this—it seems such a short time ago that you were falling off Topsy every other minute. You’ve certainly surprised everyone. They say that Mrs. Cresswell is furious.”

“Oh, dear,” said Noel, almost speechless with embarrassment, and then, a happy thought striking her, “Look, would you like a ride on Romany?”

“I should love one,” said Evelyn. Noel handed her the reins and she mounted. It was with some trepidation that Noel watched her; she knew that it was conceited to think that other people couldn’t control Romany as well as she could, but she did hope that Evelyn wouldn’t excite or upset her, for she still had three events—jumping, bending, and musical poles—to enter for. However, Evelyn didn’t do anything that could have upset the most nervous or highly-strung of show ponies; she had never ridden a pony which could collect before, and she was interested to discover what it felt like. After she had walked, trotted, and cantered Romany round, she rode up to Noel and said, “She’s lovely. You’ve certainly improved her.”

“She looks lovely with you. I wish she went as well for me,” said Noel wistfully.

“Don’t be a goose,” said Evelyn. “Of course she does, or you wouldn’t have won.” But secretly she hoped that Noel was right. It took some of the sting out of being no good at breaking and schooling to think that one could show a pony to greater perfection than the poor wretch who had spent months of toil doing the schooling. I’ll get rich, thought Evelyn, and then I’ll buy perfectly trained horses and ride about the countryside enjoying myself, and leave the sweat and labour of schooling to those who have to do it, and people like Hilary who get pleasure out of it. Aloud she said, “I’d better go now or my family will be wondering where I’ve got to, or, worse still, eating my share of the lunch. Cheerio and thanks for the ride.”

“Not at all,” said Noel. “See you later.” Mrs. Kettering wasn’t coming to watch until later in the afternoon, so Noel ate her lunch sitting beside Romany, and wishing that she had four brothers and sisters and could ride like Evelyn Radcliffe.

“Oh, Daddy, wasn’t Beauty good?” said Susan. “Didn’t she go marvellously?”

“It was nice to see my little girl in the front row,” said Mr. Barington-Brown. “But I always knew you’d get there. I’ve told mother time and time again that you’d do it one day. Haven’t I, Mother?”

“Now then, Albert, you’ll make Susan too big for her boots,” said Mrs. Barington-Brown. “If she was as good at her lessons I’d be better pleased.”

“You can’t talk about lessons in the holidays, Mummy,” said Susan. “And anyway, I shan’t get a swelled head. I know that it’s Beauty who does it.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Mr. Barington-Brown. “It’s not every little girl that knows as much as our Susan.”

“Come on, now, don’t talk so much, but eat some lunch,” said Mrs. Barington-Brown, handing out paper napkins and cold chicken.

“I’m sure,” said Susan between the mouthfuls “that I’m going to fall off in the jumping.”

Colonel Manners was quite delighted over John’s success in the best-trained pony class. “I always knew the boy had it in him,” he had told Mrs. Manners at least three times while John was being given his rosette. “Perhaps he has learned something from Holbrooke after all. He’s a queer fella—reads too many books and full of new-fangled ideas, but there’s nothing namby-pamby about him.”

“John has certainly changed a good deal lately,” said Mrs. Manners. “He’s much quieter with the animals, and not nearly so thoughtless of other people’s feelings.”

“He’s growing up, my dear,” said the Colonel. “St. Philips is knocking the rough edges off him. It’s always the same with boys. I ought to know, I was a boy once.”

At lunch, John would only say that Jet had behaved wonderfully, and that he had only done what “old Holbrooke” had told him. But he found it very pleasant, though a little embarrassing, to sit between his proud parents and be thoroughly approved of for a change.

The Morrissons’ lunch-time conversation was even more disagreeable than the Cresswells’. The only consolation for Richard’s complete failure was, in Mrs. Morrisson’s eyes, that June hadn’t won anything either in the best-trained pony class. But she said it was obvious that Rufus was the worst-trained of the ponies, if, indeed, he was trained at all. Richard said that Rufus was a brute, and had simply been playing him up. And Jill said that Richard always blamed his ponies, when all the time it was his own fault for not schooling them.

“You shut up,” said Richard to Jill. “You’re nothing but a priggish, conceited girl, and you can jolly well mind your own business.”

“Really, Richard, you’re not to speak to your sister like that,” said Mrs. Morrisson. “I won’t have it.”

“Oh, do stop nagging, Mater,” said Richard. “Can’t we have lunch? I’m famished.”

“You’re not to eat my share of the egg sandwiches as well as your own, like you did at the last Pony Club show,” said Jill to Richard.

“I hope you don’t win a single heat this afternoon,” said Richard. “It’s a pity you’re not a boy; I’d take you down a peg. Gosh, you would be put in your place if you went to a boys’ school.”

“It doesn’t seem to have improved you much,” said Jill. “And you’ve eaten your share of the egg sandwiches.”

The judges had an excellent lunch at Folly Court, and they were all in the best of tempers when they returned to the ring at two o’clock. Class three was the senior jumping competition, in which there was no height limit for horses, but their riders had to be between fourteen and twenty-one years. There was a good entry, for the Pony Club possessed quite a number of older members, and though few of them came to rallies, they hunted and rode in the annual gymkhana. David Gore-Simmonds, the first competitor, was one of these, and there were loud comments from the regular attendants at rallies about his backward seat. He rode a lovely chestnut mare from Ireland, which jumped well, despite his riding, but made four faults—two at the wall and two at the triple. Robert Penn, Clarrissa’s elder brother, who jumped next on a huge grey hunter, scattered everything, and, when the course had been repaired, Anthony Rate refused the first jump three times. Some of Mrs. Maxton’s pupils followed him, but none of their rounds was spectacular. Dick Hayward only had half a fault on his fourteen hand, sixteen-year-old pony, Crispin, but Roger, who was the next competitor, jumped a clear round. The rest of the Radcliffes were beside themselves with delight, but this was soon damped when, a few minutes later, Diana, the youngest of the Meltons, also made a faultless round. Then there were only two competitors left. One was Valentine Dale, a thin girl with fair plaits and sticking-out teeth. She was galloped out of the ring by her dock-tailed cob, Bounce, which surprised everyone, as he was professionally turned out in bandages and a hood, and there was a rumour that he had won a high-jump competition. Last of all was Mary Compton. She had two refusals at the first jump, and then, when Blackbird jumped it, she fell off and lay groaning in the ring. The first-aid party, which had been longing for something to happen, rushed to her rescue, but they were most annoyed to find that she wasn’t hurt at all. When Mary had been removed from the ring and told not to make a fuss by the doctor in charge of the first aid, and that she would never make a jockey by Reg Hunt, the Radcliffes’ cook’s nephew, who was first whipper-in to the hounds, the judges called Roger’s and Diana’s numbers. They were told to jump the whole course, which had been raised, and the excitement was terrific as Roger rode at the first jump.

“He must do another clear round,” said Margaret.

“He’s over that one,” said James. “Now steady, Sky Pilot.”

“And the gate,” said Margaret, jumping about in her excitement.

“He’ll hit the wall; he’s sure to,” said James. “It’s enormous.” But Roger and Sky Pilot didn’t hit the wall; they cleared everything until they came to the triple.

“Two faults,” said James with a groan as it fell behind them.

“Diana mustn’t do a clear round,” said Margaret. “Come on, Jim, will her to knock the gate.” In spite of James’ and Margaret’s willing, Diana cleared the gate, but she had three refusals at the wall. The Radcliffes were overjoyed; they clapped and cheered their brother as he, Diana, Dick Hayward, and—to their annoyance—David Gore-Simmonds, rode in for their rosettes.

“I’m awfully glad that Dick’s won something,” said Hilary. “He’s so fond of Crispin, and though he’s getting too big for him, he can’t have another horse, because his father won’t let him keep two, and Dick says that he couldn’t possibly part with Crispin.”

“Another advantage in having large families,” said Evelyn. “You can hand the ponies down as well as the clothes.”

“Class four in the collecting ring, please,” shouted the collecting steward. “Jumping for ponies under fourteen-two, riders under fourteen years.”

Noel’s teeth were chattering as she obeyed. This was much worse than anything that she had done before—worse than showing classes, gymkhana events, or exams.

“It’s jolly sporting of you to enter Romany for the jumping,” Evelyn told her. “You haven’t a chance, have you?”

“No,” said Noel, “not the slightest chance.”

“Hilary’s entered Rocket,” said Evelyn. “She hasn’t a hope either.”

“I’m sure to do something silly,” said Noel. “But then I always do, so that won’t be anything new.”

“It’s nice to think I’ve someone to keep me company,” said Christopher, the eldest of the Mintons. “I’ve been schooling Mousie for ages, but I’m sure that we’re going to refuse the first jump three times.”

“I bet I do a better round than you, Charles,” said Pat French to his brother.

“I bet my lucky coin to your South African stamp that you don’t,” said Charles.

“O.K.—done,” said Pat. “Now we shall see.”

“Why don’t they start?” asked Susan. “I’ve got the most awful needle.”

“So have I,” said Noel. “And I know that I’m going to let Romany down.”

“Noel,” said Simon Wentwood, “how fast ought I to ride Rusty at the triple?”

“At a slowish canter until you’re three strides away,” said Noel, “and then as fast as you can. If you let him go too early, he always knocks them down with his fore-legs.”

“Thanks,” said Simon, “I’ll try, but I don’t suppose that I’ll get as far as that.”

“Hallo, Clarrissa,” said Hilary. “We’re all expecting you to do a clear round.”

“I’m afraid Sweet William isn’t jumping very well,” said Clarrissa. “I think I’m getting too heavy for him—if only I wasn’t so fat. I weighed nine stone thirteen at the end of term. Isn’t it ghastly?”

I mustn’t jag Turpin’s mouth, whatever happens, thought John. I wonder what dad’ll say when he sees me jumping with the forward seat. I don’t think he noticed this morning, but he won’t mind if I do well. He’ll only complain if I fall off, and I mustn’t do that.

James Radcliffe sat on Darkie without saying a word. His face became greener with each moment. He felt that the honour of the stable was at stake. He must get round; what would Evelyn say if he didn’t? He mustn’t fall off, and, if he did, he mustn’t cry. That would be awful in front of all these people.

“For goodness’ sake tighten your girths, Jim,” said Roger. “They’re frightfully loose.”

“Mummy,” said June, “tighten my curb chain and take of my tail bandage.”

“All right, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “Now mind you take the post and rails slowly. Nearly all the children in the last class took the corner too fast and had to present their ponies at the jump crookedly.”

“Yes, I saw,” said June. “But they’ve no idea how to ride over a course, in spite of all the hunting they do.”

“I do hope that none of the other children do a clear round,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “They’ve all improved so much that you really must take care, my pet. What did Major Holbrooke want to meddle with them for? We were quite happy as we were before he took over the Pony Club.”

“Mummy,” said June, who wasn’t listening, “do ask the collecting steward if I can go first. I don’t want the take-off spoiled by everyone refusing. You know what it’s like at Pony Club Gymkhanas.”

“Yes, darling, I will,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “Just a moment.” Collecting stewards invariably gave in to Mrs. Cresswell, so, as usual, June was the first competitor. As she cantered down to the start people pointed her out to each other. “She’ll win. She always does,” they said. Or, “There’s the Cresswell girl; she’s sure to do a clear round.” Mrs. Cresswell was tense with suspense as June rode at the first jump—the usual brush fence. She cleared it easily, and also the gate. Mrs. Cresswell sighed with relief as June increased her pace for the parallel bars, and again as she steadied Wonder for the post and rails. The stile, wall, and triple were all straightforward, and in a few moments June had done a clear round. The spectators clapped, Mrs. Cresswell relaxed, and there was an unsporting silence from the collecting ring.

“Next competitor, Hilary Radcliffe on Rocket,” said the collecting steward.

“Good luck, Hilary,” shouted the other competitors.

Rocket shied at the jumps as he cantered down to the start, and when Hilary rode him at the brush fence he slowed up and refused. Evelyn groaned and said, “I told her that he would.”

“Hit him, Hilary,” muttered Margaret. But Hilary didn’t hit Rocket. She patted him and said, “That’s all right, old man, have a look—it’s only a jump.” Rocket sniffed the brush fence, and then, to the amusement of the crowd, he began to eat the gorse. Hilary turned him and rode at it again. This time Rocket knew what she wanted. He approached the fence slowly and cat-jumped, unseating Hilary slightly; but in spite of being ridden most determinedly, he refused again at the gate. Once more Hilary made him inspect the jump, and once more he cleared it easily the second time.

“I should think that she’s out of it now,” said Evelyn.

Rocket jumped the parallel bars, the post and rails and the stile clumsily, but without mishap; then he took a dislike to the wall and refused it twice. He finished by taking a lathe off the triple.

“Five and a half faults,” said Evelyn. “That was better than I expected. Jolly well ridden, Hilary,” she shouted as she rode into the ring. She was the next competitor. Northwind jumped his usual careless round; three lathes and the stile fell to his hind-legs, and he had one refusal at the wall. Christopher Minton followed Evelyn. He fell off three times and had five refusals, but everyone clapped because he finished the course. As he rode out of the ring, grinning broadly and patting Mousie, he shouted, “I never expected to get round,” to the people who were still waiting in the collecting ring. Felicity Rate, like Anthony, had three refusals at the first jump, and, as the relieved Tinker cantered briskly out, Clarrissa Penn came in to jump a clear round on Sweet William. Everyone applauded wildly except Mrs. Cresswell, who decided that fate was treating June very cruelly.

The Frenches jumped next, and Pat lost his South African stamp, for he had nine faults to Charles’ seven. Simon Wentwood and Rusty jumped a good round until they came to the triple, where they refused three times; and then James Radcliffe’s number was called. He rode into the ring with a set expression, ignoring the cries of “Good luck” from sympathetic people who knew that it was his first show. Darkie jumped the brush fence and the gate in fine style, but James didn’t ride her fast enough at the parallel bars, and she knocked them down with her hind-legs. She cleared the stile, but had one refusal at the wall and knocked down the triple. “Five faults,” said Hilary. “That’s not bad for his first time.”

“Go on, Marga,” said Evelyn, “you’re next. Good luck.” Though Pixie never jumped in such good style as Darkie, she could jump higher, and Margaret had expected to have less faults than James. She rode with great determination, but without much thought, and by taking both the parallel bars and the triple too fast, caused Pixie to knock them down with her fore-legs.

At last, thought Susan, as her number was called, in spite of having taken off her coat, she was far too hot and was longing to exchange the glare and heat of the collecting ring for the shade of one of the many chestnut trees which were scattered about the park. “Come on, Beauty,” she said, and they cantered up the ring. They cleared the brush fence and the gate, but crashed the parallel bars. Susan remembered to steady Beauty for the post and rails, and they made a lovely jump over both them and the stile. But Beauty didn’t like the look of the wall, and, as Susan didn’t use her legs enough, Beauty refused. Oh, golly, thought Susan, I mustn’t have three refusals. She turned and rode at it again, using every ounce of energy that she possessed. Beauty flew over. Susan patted her and turned for the triple. They cleared that too, and galloped out of the ring. Richard followed Susan, but his round was not such a good one. He had four refusals—two at the gate and two at the wall—as well as crashing the parallel bars, which were becoming rather battered in appearance. Michael Thorpington, who jumped next, had even more faults than Richard. Mouldy, his depressed-looking brown dock-tailed cob refused each fence twice, and then jumped, knocking it down. John had to wait while the stewards mended the wall, and then he rode into the ring, trying to feel calm and confident. “We must do a good round,” he told Turpin as he turned him for the brush fence, and evidently Dick Turpin decided to oblige, for, to Mrs. Cresswell’s horror, he cleared everything.

“Jolly good, John,” said Hilary as he rode out. “I’ve never seen Turpin jump so well.”

“It’s the forward seat,” said John. “It makes all the difference.”

“Is number forty-six here?” asked the collecting steward. “Come on, number forty-six.”

“Are there any more competitors?” shouted the judges impatiently.

“Will number forty-six come at once,” bellowed the collecting steward, wishing that he had not let Major Holbrooke persuade him to take this tiresome job.

“Noel, you’re number forty-six,” said Evelyn. “For goodness’ sake go on. Half-asleep as usual,” she said to Hilary as Noel rode hastily into the ring.

“Why can’t you attend?” asked the collecting steward crossly. “I’ve been calling your number for about half an hour.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Noel.

“Oh, it’s Noel,” said Major Holbrooke to his fellow-judges. “No wonder we had such a long wait. She was probably lost in thought, but I didn’t expect her to enter for the jumping.”

“That is a nice pony,” said Sir William.

Noel wished that she hadn’t entered for the jumping as, with her heart in her mouth, she rode at the brush fence. Never had a jump looked so formidable, and the nearer she drew, the taller it seemed to become. Romany, who was nervous too, jumped high into the air, clearing the brush by nearly a foot, and unseating Noel, who was unable to get back into the saddle in time to ride her at the gate, which, consequently, she refused. Noel made her look at the gate, thinking how awful it would be if they had three refusals; it might ruin Romany’s jumping for ever. But, second try, Romany flew over, and cantered on to clear the parallel bars, the post and rails and the stile. Now Noel was really enjoying herself. The jumps had shrunk to a reasonable height, and she felt she could go on flying over them for ever. But Romany was very suspicious of the wall, and, in spite of Noel’s frantic kicks, she slowed up and refused. Noel let her look at it and sniff it for a few moments. Romany soon decided that it was harmless, and when Noel rode her at it again she cleared it easily. Then they jumped the triple perfectly, and galloped out of the ring amid applause from everyone who knew that Romany was one of the New Forest ponies. In the collecting ring the Pony Club members patted Romany and congratulated Noel, who felt very embarrassed. She couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound conceited, so she just blushed and patted Romany too. The judges soon created a diversion by calling for June, Clarrissa, and John to jump off. Everybody agreed that now the course really was enormous, just as big as in the senior jumping. June looked cool and collected, and was ignoring her mother’s frantic signals, which were obviously advice on how to take the course, now that it was higher, as she rode down to the start. She took the brush fence slowly; she cleared it and the gate; but did not increase her pace enough for the parallel bars, which Wonder crashed with her fore-feet. “Four faults,” said someone. June cleared all the rest of the course, and then Clarrissa cantered down the ring. Sweet William found the course too high; he brushed through the brush fence and then knocked down everything but the stile. “Bad luck,” shouted the Pony Club members regretfully. They knew now that June would win. The jumps loomed and leered at John as he waited at the start, but Turpin seemed fresh and eager to be off, which gave him confidence. “Come on, old man,” he said as he rode at the first jump. They cleared it, and the gate, and the parallel bars; John’s spirits soared, but as they went over the post and rails he heard the sound of a rail falling. “Careful, Turpin,” he said, steadying him for the wall. They flew over it and turned for the triple. John strained every nerve to get the take-off right. Turpin was pulling, but he held him back, gradually letting him gain speed as they neared the jump. Then, three strides away, he let him go. They soared through the air, and, by the clapping, John knew that they had cleared it. He jumped off Turpin as soon as they were out of the ring, and gave him all the oats and bread that he had in his pockets.

“He did jump well,” said Susan, “only having two faults round that huge course.”

“They don’t look so high when you get close to them,” said John. The collecting steward called John’s, June’s, Clarrissa’s, and Noel’s numbers, and the first three who were expecting the summons rode into the ring. “Number forty-six,” shouted the collecting steward again. “Noel,” shrieked everyone as they recognised her number. “What is it?” asked Noel, who was thinking about something else.

“You’re fourth,” said Susan. “Quick!”

“Go on, you idiot, go in,” said Evelyn.

“Come along now,” said the collecting steward. “You really can’t hold the show up in this way.”

“But it can’t be me,” said Noel. “I had two faults.”

“Go in and don’t argue,” said the collecting steward crossly.

“Of course it’s you,” said Evelyn. Noel cantered in, still hardly able to believe her ears, and lined up with the others. John was feeling very pleased with himself. He had remembered to take his hat off to Lady Wrench, and she had said that she thought Turpin jumped in such good style. June felt furious; she hadn’t a single red rosette, and for her the show was over. Clarrissa thought how good Sweet William had been. She was sure that he would have won but for her being so fat and heavy. When Noel had been given her rosette, they cantered round the ring, and John was most indignant because June galloped past him and took the lead though she was only second.

There was a short interval for tea while the bending poles were being put up and the judges for the gymkhana events took over. They were Mrs. Mills, a smart woman who always hunted side-saddle; and a man called Colin Brent, who invariably wore sporting clothes and attended all the horsy events in the county, but had never been seen to ride. The bending, for which, as usual, there was a very large entry, took a long time. But the collecting steward put Noel into the first heat before, he said, she had a chance to disappear or go to sleep. She was against Christopher Minton and Charles French. Romany went fearfully fast, in fact too fast, and she knocked down the last pole but one. Christopher was very slow and Charles won easily.

“Bad luck, Noel,” said Susan. “But you don’t need any more rosettes; Romany’s simply covered.”

“She’s been marvellous,” said Noel. “But the show’s nearly over,” and she rode sadly away to find her mother.

To Noel’s surprise she found her talking to the Major and his cousin.

“Ah, here she is,” said Cousin Harry, who saw Noel first.

“Festooned with rosettes; disgusting sight,” said Major Holbrooke, looking round. “You’ll have to be careful, Mrs. Kettering,” he went on, trying to look serious. “You’ll have her growing up into a pot-hunter. We were just discussing your prize,” he said to Noel. “My cousin’s had a brainwave. Haven’t you, Harry?”

“I don’t know that I’d call it that,” said Cousin Harry, “but I’m delighted with the way this little skewbald goes—really delighted. Never seen anything like it. But to keep to the point, the Major wouldn’t let me decide on the prize before; he said I was to wait and see who won it. Well, now, it seems that you haven’t a pony of your own, and I have an unbroken four-year-old—just fourteen hands—which I found in dreadful condition just recovering from strangles. I had to buy her, but ever since I’ve been at my wits’ end to know what to do with her, and now your mother’s agreed that I can give her to you.”

“Give her to me? A pony?” asked Noel, quite incredulous.

“A real live pony,” said Major Holbrooke, imitating Noel’s surprised voice.

“Gosh, I should love her,” said Noel.

“Well, that’s settled then,” said Cousin Harry. “And you needn’t worry about Romany; Sir William’s made me a very good offer for her. He’s determined to have her for his little daughter. She sounds a sporting kid, eh, George?”

“Definitely,” said Major Holbrooke. “Romany couldn’t have a better home; but you won’t have to part with her for at least a week, Noel, so don’t start bidding her fond farewells yet.”

“This new pony of yours,” said Cousin Harry. “She’s dapple grey, and she may be quite nice looking when she fattens up, but at the moment she looks ghastly—quite frankly, ghastly; but nothing to what she did when I bought her. However, if you give her plenty to eat and don’t ride her too hard at first she’ll soon pick up.”

“There’s one condition about having her,” said Major Holbrooke.

“What’s that?” asked Noel quickly, hoping that it was nothing to shatter the wonderful plans which she was already making.

“That you help me re-school Rufus and Grey Dawn,” said Major Holbrooke.

“Grey Dawn?” said Noel. “But I couldn’t possibly improve her. I mean, June’s taught her an awful lot, you know. She could change legs in the Easter holidays.”

“Small wonder she’s behind the bit now,” said Major Holbrooke. “But do you agree to the condition?”

“If you really want me to,” said Noel. “But I’m sure I shall ruin her completely.”

“By jove if she’s as spoiled as Romany I’ll be more than satisfied,” said Cousin Harry. “Well, now, everything really is settled,” he went on, “and I’ll send you the little mare as soon as I get home. I’m staying with the Major over the week-end.”

“Thanks awfully,” said Noel. “It’s most awfully kind of you. I really can’t thank you enough.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Cousin Harry. “Thank you for schooling Romany.”

Mrs. Holbrooke appeared then, and invited them all to tea in the house. Mrs. Kettering and Colonel Shelbourne accepted, but the Major and Noel stayed to watch the finals of the bending. As the winners galloped out, Dick Hayward leading by a neck from John, with Evelyn close behind, the Major rose to go, and, turning to Noel, he asked, “Well, and how does it feel to be the champion horse-breaker, Uriah?” When Noel, speechless with embarrassment, merely blushed and looked at her feet, he added, “The best of having an inferiority complex is that you only get nice surprises.”

Some time later, when Evelyn, Hilary, and Margaret came out of the ring with their rosettes for the musical poles, they were greeted by shrieks from James. “Oh, Hilary,” he shouted, “isn’t it wonderful? Doc.’s bought Rocket.”

“Bought Rocket?” asked Hilary. “Are you sure, Jim?”

“Yes, I was there,” said James. “Look, there he is, still talking to Colonel Shelbourne. He said that Rocket would do for Andrew when the rest of us got too big.”

“Oh, how marvellous,” said Hilary. “I must go and thank him.”

Later still, when the prize-giving was over and the competitors had ridden home and settled their ponies for the night, the deeply glowing red sunset invaded the various houses of the horse-breakers. At the Priory it clashed horribly with the Radcliffes’ hair as they lay scattered in sprawling attitudes about the nursery. They had been discussing the events of the day, but now, for a moment, they were silent. Hilary thought how lovely it was that the parting, which she had spent the last few weeks steeling herself against, would never come. Rocket would stay with them for ever. When she grew much too big, Marga, Jim, and then Andrew would ride him. Later she might have him for her children; she was determined to have a large family; it was much more fun. Evelyn thought how good Northwind had been. His behaviour in the bending and musical poles had made up for his carelessness in the jumping. It was the first gymkhana at which three of them had been first, second, and third in the same event. That and Roger’s success in the senior jumping had more than upheld the honour of the stable. It was funny, she thought, how little she cared about Noel having Romany. At first she had felt that she would never speak to her again; but perhaps seeing Romany go so well had softened the blow. She couldn’t have borne to see her spoiled, she was such a gay, willing pony. But even if she hadn’t let Jim ride her on that fateful day, she would be parting with her now. Doc. would never have bought them both, she thought, and he would have chosen Rocket, because he had the quieter temperament. Romany would be no good for Andrew.

Roger was jumping round the ring again in his imagination. He could feel Sky Pilot flying easily through the air and see his black ears pricked in front of him. He had always longed to win the jumping, and now, at last, he had done it.

Margaret felt pleased with herself. She had won a prize at her first show and had only been beaten by her sisters. If they hadn’t been there she would have been first. Jim might have had less faults than her in the jumping, but everyone knew that Darkie was really better than Pixie, and he hadn’t won anything. Neither Roger, Hilary, nor Evelyn had won a prize when they were as young as she was.

James was very tired, but the last thing he wanted was to go to bed. He wondered dreamily how one could fix a comfortable loose-box in a ship, so that when he reached strange and undiscovered lands he could lead out Darkie, or a horse just like her, and, mounting, explore, jumping logs, streams, and any jungle undergrowth which lay in his path.

The door opened, and Dr. Radcliffe walked in. “Look,” he said, “I’ve found a bottle of Madeira; don’t you think we ought to drink it out of Roger’s cup?”

Mrs. Cresswell and June sat in arm-chairs in the Tudor lounge. They were silent, exhausted by their post-mortems on the show. They had argued throughout supper, but it had got them nowhere, and now Mrs. Cresswell toyed with the thought of moving to a less horsy part of the country, where June could once more reign supreme. June’s own conscience was clear. It wasn’t her fault, she thought, that Romany had turned out a better-looking pony than Dawn, and, because of her conformation, had been easier to school. It wasn’t her fault that Mr. Barington-Brown could buy Susan a more expensive pony than her mother could afford. As for Dick Turpin in the jumping, he had never jumped like that before, and the only thing she could think of was that John had practised him over the jumps—he lived near enough to Folly Court. Still, thought June, Wonder had knocked the parallel bars the second time round. She must be getting past her prime after all; she was nearly twelve. June decided that she would need a new pony next summer, something that would win in novice classes. “Mummy,” she said, “how much do you think we’d get for Wonder?”

John nailed Turpin’s first and second and Jet’s third rosettes close to the others beside the saddles and bridles, and stood back to admire them. He had never thought this morning that he would do so well, and he didn’t suppose that any one else had either. Turpin had been wonderful. It just showed what the forward seat did, and even dad had said that there might be something in it after all. Jet had behaved awfully well too, but he wished now that he had another holiday to teach her to collect in. He would love to see her go like Romany. He was going to miss her terribly, but he would probably be too heavy to ride her next holidays, and he knew that the Major would see that she had a good home. Perhaps someone who lived near would buy her, and then he would see her occasionally.

As she ate her dinner, Susan’s eyes turned at intervals to the cup she had won in the showing, which had been put in the middle of the dining-room mantelpiece. Beauty had been good to beat Golden Wonder. She had gone better than ever before, and quite made up for Susan’s disappointment over Sunset in the best-trained pony class. On the whole, she was glad that Noel had won it. She had taken more trouble than any of them—reading those dreadful dry books and studying the aids and school figures all day long. Now that she was going to have a grey pony about the same size as Beauty, they would be able to have lovely rides together, and perhaps their parents would allow them to hunt every Saturday in the autumn and spring terms.

“Wake up, Susan, and help yourself to vegetables,” said Mrs. Barington-Brown.

“She’s going to be worse than ever now that she’s won a cup,” said Valerie. “I wish you’d spent as much on my education as you have on her riding, Dad. It’s easy to do these things if you’ve got money behind you.”

“And if you’re any good you’ll do just as well without money,” said Mr. Barington-Brown. “Look at Noel Kettering. She hadn’t even a pony.”

“At least I won a rosette, so I did better than you,” said Richard to Jill. “And I wasn’t so feeble as to let Peter cart me out of the ring.”

“Rufus nearly did,” said Jill. “Everyone asked what was the matter with him, and said he looked so unschooled beside the other ponies.”

“Well, it’s none of their business,” said Richard, “and if they minded their own they’d get on much better.”

“What about the Major?” asked Jill. “Didn’t he say anything to you?” Richard didn’t reply. He wasn’t going to tell Jill that during the tea interval the Major had taken him aside and asked, “Well, Richard, what was the matter with Rufus?” Richard had gone red in the face, and for a few moments he had been at a loss for a reply. Then, to gain time, he had said, “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“Don’t be absurd,” the Major had said sharply. “You don’t think, I hope, that Rufus behaved perfectly in the best-trained pony class?”

“Well, no,” Richard had admitted. “But, of course, it was all very new to him.”

“Nonsense,” Major Holbrooke had said, in what Richard considered an overbearing manner. “None of the other ponies were upset and they were all just as new to it. Quite frankly,” he had gone on, “I don’t think that you’ve been schooling him. I only wish that you had told me you were tired of him earlier, then I could have made other arrangements. But one thing is, that you’ll know not to undertake anything of this sort again. For heavens’ sake don’t go through life letting yourself in for things which don’t really interest you merely to appease your vanity. Realise your limitations, especially where animals are concerned.”

“I’m sure that I shan’t bother with a young horse again,” Richard had answered, furious at being lectured by a horsy bore like Holbrooke. “People like Noel and June are much more suitable. The monotony of schooling is definitely wearying to an active brain.”

“My dear Richard,” Major Holbrooke had replied, “I can only hope that one day you will blush to think of the idiotic and conceited remarks which you make now. When you reach that stage, if you ever do, don’t despair of becoming a likeable character; you will have begun to improve from that moment. I’ll let you know what day I want Rufus back. Good-bye.” No, it certainly wasn’t the sort of thing one told one’s sister, thought Richard; it was the sort one locked in some very distant corner of one’s mind and tried to forget. Unfortunately, the corner was getting rather full; school friends made such a lot of silly remarks, and one day there might not be any more room. The last remark would break the camel’s back, and a torrent of abuse would pour into Richard’s system. But, until then, he forgot.

Mrs. Kettering was really delighted at Noel’s success with Romany, and with her luck at being given a pony. She didn’t say, as many richer mothers might, that feeding it would be an expense, nor did she point out that Noel had no saddle nor bridle in which to ride it. As they sat on opposite sides of the fire, after a celebration supper of pea-soup, bacon and eggs, apple tart and cider, they tried to think of names. “It’s so difficult,” said Noel, “when one hasn’t even seen her. I can imagine her perfectly, but I may be imagining her wrong.”

“Surely there’s no need to settle finally on a name to-night,” said Mrs. Kettering. “I should write down all the possibles and decide when you’ve seen her.”

“Gosh, I’m excited,” said Noel. “But it’s going to be awful parting with Romany.” In her mind’s eye Noel saw her: young and inquisitive at the shareout; covered in sweat when Evelyn rode her in the paper-chase; fat, round, and muddy when she was turned out at Folly Farm, but never had she looked so lovely as that evening, grazing peacefully in Farmer Cox’s field against a background of elms in the soft rose-coloured twilight.

“I know it’s silly,” said Noel. “But, even though I’m too big for her, I’d rather keep Romany than have the grey.”

“Quite a successful show, I think,” said Major Holbrooke, when the last of his guests had gone to bed.

“Very good indeed,” said Mrs. Holbrooke, poking up the dying embers of the drawing-room fire. “Everyone said so, except Mrs. Cresswell.”

“She certainly had a nasty shock, poor woman,” said Major Holbrooke. “It’s rather hard on her, really, considering how she dotes on that child.”

“She wasn’t the only person who was surprised,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. “I was myself. You told me that some of the children had improved, but they had improved out of all recognition. Honestly, I could hardly believe that they were the same children that competed in the gymkhana last year.”

“They only needed teaching,” said Major Holbrooke, “and I think that Cousin Harry’s six ponies were the best schoolmasters of all.”

Publication Info

SIX PONIES

by

JOSEPHINE PULLEIN-THOMPSON

With Illustrations
by Anne Bullen

COLLINS
14 ST. JAMES’S PLACE LONDON
1946

COPYRIGHT
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
COLLINS CLEAR-TYPE PRESS : LONDON AND GLASGOW
1946

Version Info

v 1.0 HTML

• Scanned and proofed 2011-07-06

• Changes / Corrections to the printed book

• went to sleep / sleep.

• Mary Compton’s Black-bird / Blackbird

• Paragraph break added after “it makes my back ache.”

• “ A good horse is never a bad colour!’ ” / “ ‘A good horse

• “Yes, she’s awfully nice,” agreed Roger / “Yes, he’s

• Noel felt even more embarraised / embarrassed

• Oh, goodness, she thought miserable, why ever / miserably

• But you can’t dislike Dickens / “But

• Meanwhile, as. Mrs. Cresswell / as Mrs.

• Isn’t that right. Noel / right, Noel

• “ A garden is a lovesome thing God wot!’ ” / “ ‘A garden

• she would even had Topsy / have Topsy

• pinched Susan with the girth / pinched Sunset

• in the Flamingo’s cage / flamingo’s

• drum the turn on the forehead / forehand

• and you know what he’s like ” / like.”

• when it comes to a straight gallop. / gallop.”

• saddle O.K.,” James?” / O.K., James?”

• she lent forward / leant

• “All right,” keep your hair on,” / “All right, keep your hair on,”

• where Jim is. What will mummy say?” / say?

• “ Tipperary?’ ” asked Hilary. / “ ‘Tipperary?’ ”

• Not that it’ll be much good now; / “Not that it’ll be much good now;

• the gymkhana or test he said he was going to have / or the test

• Because only one horse in a thousand / “Because

• that awful Mitchel / Mitchell

• The Barrington-Brown child’s pony / Barington

• Contes d’Hoffman / Contes d’Hoffmann

• Marianna in the moated grange / Mariana

• Mendel’s Principles of Hereditary / Heredity

• who’s fault is that / whose

• “You shut up.” said Richard to Jill. / “You shut up,”

• on Rocket,” said the collecting steward.” / on Rocket,” said the collecting steward.

• said Hilary as he rode out. I’ve / said Hilary as he rode out. “I’ve

• clashed horribly with the Radcliffe’s hair / Radcliffes’ hair

• Clarrisa Penn second / Clarrissa

• Clarrisa might have been / Clarrissa

• the Radcliffes and Clarissa / Clarrissa

• Clarissa Penn nearly drove / Clarrissa

• Of course, there’s Clarissa / Clarrissa

• Possible errors

• maggotty

• toylike

• Inconsistent spelling

• view-holler / view holloa

• Flapton’s / Flaptons’

• Friar’s Fenchurch / Friars’ Fenchurch

• mummy / Mummy

• Inconsistent hyphenation

• forelegs / fore-legs

• halter rope / halter-rope

• back reining / back-reining

• anyone / any one

• fed-up / fed up

• head carriage / head-carriage

• fore-hand / forehand

• paper chase / paper-chase

• brush-fence / brush fence

• Doc’s / Doc.’s

• hind leg / hind-leg

• hotted-up / hotted up

• boarding school / boarding-school

• bending poles / bending-poles

• potato-race / potato race

• show-jumper / show jumper

• show riding / show-riding

• farmyard / farm-yard

• curb chain / curb-chain

• walk-over / walkover

• absent-minded(ly) / absentminded(ly)

• baby-ish / babyish

• Ambiguous hyphenation

• said Mrs. Radcliffe absent-mindedly

• quoted Noel absent-mindedly

• a full-time nurse-maid

• back-wash