Christmas Day came. Algy's father gave orders to have the pony saddled,
and led round to the front door. Algy's mother, a lady of forty summers,
spent the morning superintending the dinner. Dinner was the principal
event in the day with her. Alas, poor lady! Everything she ate agreed
with her, and she got fatter and fatter and fatter.
The cold world never fully appreciates the struggles of those who
are fat--the efforts at starvation, the detested exercise, the long,
miserable walks. Well has one of our greatest poets written, “Take up
the fat man's burden.” But we digress.
When Algy saw the pony he shouted with delight, and in half a minute was
riding him up and down the front drive. Then he asked for leave to go
out in the street--and that was where the trouble began.
Up and down the street the pony cantered, as quietly as possible, till
suddenly round a corner came two butcher boys racing their horses. With
a clatter of clumsy hoofs they thundered past. In half a second there
was a rattle, and a sort of comet-like rush through the air. Sausage II.
was off after them with his precious burden.
The family dog tried to keep up with him, and succeeded in keeping ahead
for about three strides. Then, like the wolves that pursued Mazeppa, he
was left yelping far behind. Through Surry Hills and Redfern swept the
flying pony, his rider lying out on his neck in Tod Sloan fashion, while
the ground seemed to race beneath him. The events of the way were just
one hopeless blur till the pony ran straight as an arrow into the yard
of Blinky Bill.