But no
sooner had I got into the saddle than the pony sprang straight up into
the air and lit with his back curved into a bow, his four legs gathered
together and so absolutely rigid that the shock made my teeth rattle.
It was my first experience of "bucking." Then the little brute went
seriously to work to get rid of the rustling, flapping thing on his
back. He would back steadily for some seconds, then, with two or three
forward plunges, he would stop as if shot and spring straight into the
upper air, lighting with back curved and legs rigid as iron. Then he
would walk on his hind legs for a few steps, then throw himself with
amazing rapidity to one side and again proceed to buck with vicious
diligence.
"Stick to him!" yelled Jack, through his shouts of laughter. "You'll
make him sick before long."
I remember thinking that unless his insides were somewhat more
delicately organized than his external appearance would lead one to
suppose the chances were that the little brute would be the last to
succumb to sickness. To make matters worse, a wilder jump than ordinary
threw my cape up over my head, so that I was in complete darkness. And
now he had me at his mercy, and he knew no pity. He kicked and plunged
and reared and bucked, now on his front legs, now on his hind legs,
often on his knees, while I, in the darkness, could only cling to
the horn of the saddle.
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