Then ensued one of the
most lively ten minutes that I can remember. The beast
justified his reputation; but Cullingworth, although he
was no horseman, stuck to him like a limpet. Backwards,
forwards, sideways, on his fore feet, on his hind feet,
with his back curved, with his back sunk, bucking and
kicking, there was nothing the creature did not try.
Cullingworth was sitting alternately on his mane and on
the root of his tail--never by any chance in the saddle--
he had lost both stirrups, and his knees were drawn up
and his heels dug into the creature's ribs, while his
hands clawed at mane, saddle, or ears, whichever he saw
in front of him. He kept his whip, however; and whenever
the brute eased down, Cullingworth lammed him once more
with the bone handle. His idea, I suppose, was to break
its spirit, but he had taken a larger contract than he
could carry through. The animal bunched his four feet
together, ducked down his head, arched his back like a
yawning cat, and gave three convulsive springs into the
air. At the first, Cullingworth's knees were above the
saddle flaps, at the second his ankles were retaining a
convulsive grip, at the third he flew forward like
a stone out of a sling, narrowly missed the coping of the
wall, broke with his head the iron bar which held some
wire netting, and toppled back with a thud into the yard.
Up he bounded with the blood streaming down his face, and
running into our half-finished stables he seized a
hatchet, and with a bellow of rage rushed at the horse.
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