Six Ponies (2 page)

“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

M
AJOR
H
OLBROOKE
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.