"Bravo, Cuddy!" the horse plunged and whipped his head between his
forelegs, trying to get the reins from the rider's hands. Gething
let himself be jerked forward until his face almost rested on the
veiny neck.
"Old tricks, Cuddy. I knew _that_ one before you wore your first
shoes." He still had easy control and began to really let him out.
There was a succession of walls and fences and mad racing through
fields when the horse plunged in his gait and frightened birds
fluttered from the thicket and Gething hissed between his teeth as
he always did when he felt a horse going strong beneath him.
Then they came to a hill that rose out of green meadows. It was
covered with dingy pine trees except the top that was bared like a
tonsure. A trail ran through the woods; a trail singularly morose
and unattractive. The pines looked shabby and black in comparison to
the sun on the spring meadows. This was Break-Neck Hill. Perhaps
Cuddy felt his rider stiffen in the saddle for he refused
passionately to take the path. He set his will against Gething's and
fought, bucking and rearing. When a horse is capable of a six foot
jump into the air his great strength and agility make his bucking
terrible. The broncho is a child in size and strength compared to
Cuddy's race of super-horse.
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