"Have you seen my boy?" said Mr. Bushby as we came up; "he went out an
hour ago on my black pony, and the creature is just come back without a
rider."
"I should think, sir," said John, "he had better be without a rider,
unless he can be ridden properly."
"What do you mean?" said the farmer.
"Well, sir, I saw your son whipping, and kicking, and knocking that good
little pony about shamefully because he would not leap a gate that was
too high for him. The pony behaved well, sir, and showed no vice; but at
last he just threw up his heels and tipped the young gentleman into the
thorn hedge. He wanted me to help him out, but I hope you will excuse
me, sir, I did not feel inclined to do so. There's no bones broken, sir;
he'll only get a few scratches. I love horses, and it riles me to see
them badly used; it is a bad plan to aggravate an animal till he uses
his heels; the first time is not always the last."
During this time the mother began to cry, "Oh, my poor Bill, I must go
and meet him; he must be hurt."
"You had better go into the house, wife," said the farmer; "Bill wants a
lesson about this, and I must see that he gets it; this is not the first
time, nor the second, that he has ill-used that pony, and I shall stop
it.
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