"Good boy, Ned," cried out this voice heartily, though likewise from some
locality yet vague. "R-ride the divil to a finish, me boy! Git up his
head, Ned! Git up his head! The murdering haythin' brute! Kill him!
Ride him out!"

And ride him out Franklin did, perhaps as much by good fortune as by
skill, though none but a shrewd horseman would have hoped to do this
feat. Hurt and jarred, he yet kept upright, and at last he did get the
horse's head up and saw the wild performance close as quickly as it had
begun. The pony ceased his grunting and fell into a stiff trot, with
little to indicate his hidden pyrotechnic quality. Franklin whirled him
around and rode up to where Battersleigh and Curly had now joined. He
was a bit pale, but he pulled himself together well before he reached
them and dismounted with a good front of unconcern. Battersleigh grasped
his hand in both his own and greeted him with a shower of welcomes and of
compliments. Curly slapped him heartily upon the shoulders.

"You're all right, pardner," said he. "You're the d----dest best pilgrim
that ever struck this place, an' I kin lick ary man that says differ'nt.
He's yore horse now, shore."

"And how do ye do, Ned? God bless ye!" said Battersleigh a moment later,
after things had become more tranquil, the horse now falling to cropping
at the grass with a meekness of demeanour which suggested innocence or
penitence, whichever the observer chose. "I'm glad to see ye; glad as
ivver I was in all me life to see a livin' soul! Why didn't ye tell ye
was coming and not come ridin' like a murderin' Cintaur--but ay, boy,
ye're a rider--worthy the ould Forty-siventh--yis, more, I'll say ye
might be a officer in the guards, or in the Rile Irish itself, b'gad,