"And didn't I ride a broncho that never had had a saddle on his back
but once in his life? Say, did I get thrown then?"

"He did that," endorsed Stacy Brown, who, because of his well-rounded
cheeks and ample girth, was known familiarly among his companions as
"Chunky." "I mean, he didn't. And he rode the pony three times around
the baseball field, too. That broncho's back was humped up like a mad
cat's all the way around. 'Course Tad can ride. Wish I could ride half
as well as he does. You needn't be afraid, Walter."

Thus reassured by Chunky's praise, Walter dropped the bridle rein over
the neck of his handsome new pony, and slid slowly to the ground.

"All right, Tad. Jump up! But don't hold him too tightly. He doesn't
like it, and, besides, he has been trained to run when you tighten up
on the rein, and father would not like it if we were to race him in
the village."

"I'll be careful."

Tad Butler needed no second invitation to try out his companion's
pony. With the agility of a cowboy, he leaped into the saddle without
so much as touching a foot to the stirrup. In another second, with a
slight pressure on the rein, he had wheeled the animal sharply on its
haunches, and was jogging off up the street at an easy gallop, both
boy and pony rising and falling in graceful, rhythmic movements, as if
in reality each were a part of the other. Tad seemed born to stirrup
and saddle.