Still without haste, the boy put on the bridle, holding the pan near the ground to reach the straps over the ears; then, pausing, looked at the back far above his head.  How he was to get up there would have perplexed an observer.  For a moment it puzzled the boy; then an idea occurred to him.  Once more holding the remnants of the oats near the ground, he waited until the hungry nose was deep amongst them, the head well lowered; then, improving his opportunity, he swung one leg over the sleek neck and awaited developments.

He was not long in suspense.  The action was like touching flame to powder; the resulting explosion was all but simultaneous.  With a snort, the head went high in air, tossing the grain about like seed, and down the inclined plane of the neck thus formed the long-legged Benjamin slid to the slippery back.  Once there, an instinct told him to grip the rounding flank with his ankles, and clutch the heavy mane.

And he was none too quick.  For a moment the colt paused in pure wonder at the audacity of the thing; then, with a neigh, half of anger and half of fear, it sprang away at top speed, circling and recircling, flashing in and out among the other horses, the fragment of humanity on its back meanwhile clinging to his place like a monkey.  For a minute, then another, the youngster kept his seat, pulling upon the reins at intervals, gripping together his small knees until the muscles ached.  Then suddenly the colt, changing its tactics, planted its front feet firmly into the ground, stopped short, and the small Benjamin shot overhead, to strike the turf beyond with an impact which fairly drove the breath from his body.  But even then, half unconscious as he was, he wouldn’t let loose of the reins.  Not until the now thoroughly aroused colt had dragged him for rods, did the leather break, leaving the boy and the bridle in a most disreputable-looking heap upon the earth.

Florence had watched the scene with breathless interest.  While Ben was making his mount, she observed him doubtfully.  While he retained his seat, she clapped her hands in glee.  Then, with his downfall, a great lump came chokingly into her throat, and, without waiting to see the outcome, she ran sobbing to the house.  A moment later she rushed into the little parlor where her father and Rankin, their cigars finished, were sitting and chatting.

“Papa,” she pleaded, “papa, go quick!  Ben’s killed!”

“Great Caesar’s ghost!” exclaimed Scotty, springing up nervously, and holding the little girl at arm’s length.  “What’s the matter?”

“Ben, Ben, I told you!  He tried to ride one of the colts, and he’s killed—­I know he is!”