Six Ponies (17 page)

“I bet Roger had a job to get down here on Sky Pilot,” said James.

“Can’t see why he had to go down such a beastly place,” grumbled Richard. “I’ve scratched my face all over.” Behind, Noel was hoping that Rusty wouldn’t slip, and telling herself not to be such a coward; and Susan was giving small shrieks as the branches whipped her face and clutched at her clothes. Suddenly there was a wail from Jill. “My saddle’s slipping. Whoa! Whoa!” she cried. “It’s right up her neck.”

“Get off and put it back,” said Evelyn, without bothering to stop or look round.

“I told you to tighten your girths,” said Richard, following Evelyn. Susan, who was just in front of Jill, stopped. “Jump off,” she said, seeing the saddle perched precariously on Wendy’s neck.

“I can’t, I can’t,” whined Jill. “It’s wobbling. I’m going
to fall.” Susan dismounted and Noel, who was just ahead of her, took Beauty’s reins. With Susan at Wendy’s head, Jill managed to scramble off.

“You’d better lead her the rest of the way down,” said Susan, “and we’ll put it right at the bottom.”

“Come on,” said Noel, “we must hurry. The others have gone.” She gave Beauty to Susan, who led her until the Nut-walk came out into a huge downland field. There they put Wendy’s saddle back and Jill mounted. They could see Richard, Margaret and Evelyn, dim specks, fast disappearing in the distance, while John stood half-way across the field, an indecisive figure, torn between the thrill of the chase and a highly developed competitive spirit on the one hand and the obvious unfairness of deserting Susan and Noel on the other.

“Is your saddle O.K., James?” asked Noel as she mounted.

“Yes, thank you,” replied James.

“Come on, then,” said Susan, “we must catch them up.” They galloped towards John, who stood waiting.

“The others have gone towards Stark Dyke,” he shouted as they drew near, and, turning Turpin, he took the lead. Soon the ponies began to blow, and the children let them canter more slowly until they reached the brow of the hill, where they pulled up, and looked down on the dyke and the faint line of the Roman road in the valley below.

“That’s odd,” said John, scanning the view. “There’s no one in sight. Where can they have got to?”

“They must be in that wood, I should think,” said Noel.

“Perhaps they’re all hiding,” suggested Susan.

“There’s lots of sawdust down here,” said James excitedly. He was the only one who had remembered they were supposed to be following a trail and not the other people.

“Gosh, yes,” said John, riding over to him, “lashings of it. Come on.” And he started off down the side of the hill, where a precipitous track led round the edge of a chalk quarry. At the bottom the trail led over a small post and rails into the next field. Turpin jumped it beautifully, and, though John leaned back slightly, he didn’t catch his mouth; Beauty and Rusty followed, and then Wendy refused.

“Oh, gosh!” said John despairingly. Jill turned and rode at it again. Still Wendy refused.

“What about James giving you a lead?” suggested Susan.

“Look out, then,” said James. He rode at the jump, and Darkie cleared it easily, but Wendy refused again.

“Try a short run,” said Susan, but still she refused.

“Do you think one of us could get her over?” asked Noel.

“That’s not a bad idea,” said John. “You’d better try first; you look much the lightest.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll be able to get her over,” said Noel, instantly regretting her suggestion. “Still, I can try.” Jill dismounted and asked, “Shall I alter the stirrups?”

“Don’t bother,” replied Noel, “I’ll try without, first. Can I borrow your stick, please?” Jill handed it to her. Giving Wendy two hits, Noel turned her at the jump, and she was so surprised at being ridden in a determined manner that she jumped it straight away.

“Jolly good,” said John.

“Hurrah!” said James.

“Well done!” said Susan. Jill felt rather annoyed that Wendy should jump for Noel and not for herself, but still anything was better than being left refusing while everyone else disappeared into the distance. They both remounted and cantered on, following the trail across a couple of fields and into a wood. They were trotting down a broad ride, the thick, centuries-old carpet of leaves muffling their hoof-beats, when Susan pointed and said, “Look, there’s another trail leading off here.”

“A false scent, I expect,” said John. “By the hoof-marks, the others have gone this way.”

“Let’s go the other way, then,” said Noel, “because if they took the right one they’ll probably have caught the hares by now; but if by any chance they’ve taken the wrong trail, we might get there first.”

“Oh, yes,” said James, “that’s a very good idea. Besides, this trail is an awfully thin one; the others may not have noticed it.”

“Come on, then,” said John, “let’s get cracking.” And, leaving the path, they began to follow the smaller trail, which led through the undergrowth and twisted in and out of the sombre rhododendron bushes. They walked the ponies, which were all sweating, for some time, and then they trotted until they came to a pair of hurdles, which led into a ploughed field. James fell off over them, but he didn’t hurt himself, and while John caught Darkie, Noel mounted Wendy, who had had six refusals with Jill, and jumped her over second try. The trail led round the headland of the ploughed field and through a gap into the next one—a barren, untilled field, growing little else but stunted, gnarled thorn bushes and treacherous with rabbit-holes and
mole-hills, through which the children gingerly picked their way, to find themselves on the deserted grass-grown track that had once been a busy Roman road.

Suddenly Jill said, “Look! There’s a fog coming up. Oh, what shall we do?”

“Gosh, yes,” said John as he looked round and realised with dismay that, while they had been so intent on the trail, the fog had been creeping up, minute by minute, until now the surrounding hills were completely blotted out.

“We shall be lost,” said Jill. “I know we shall.”

“Rot!” said John.

“I’ve got my compass,” said James, “though it doesn’t work very well.”

“Gosh, you’re efficient,” said Noel. “One generally forgets that sort of thing the only time one needs it.”

“I think the best thing we can do,” said John, “is to keep going, because if we manage to catch up with Roger and Hilary they’ll know the way home.” Realising the need for speed, he put Turpin into a canter. They cantered on and on. All five felt anxious as they watched the fog become thicker and thicker with each moment, but no one, except Jill, said anything. She sniffed continuously, and whined that she didn’t want to be lost, and have to sleep out in the dark and the fog at intervals. Soon they couldn’t see the trail, but no one remarked on it. They followed John along the Roman road at a trot in grim silence. Then Susan said, “Beauty seems awfully tired. Shall we get off and lead them for a bit?” They all dismounted, and Noel suggested, “Oughtn’t we to shout? Some of the others may be lost too.” So they shouted and made hunting cries as they walked along, which cheered them for a little, but when they had to stop, through hoarseness, the silence which fell seemed deeper, heavier, and more eerie than before. Noel felt as though she were captive in some ancient castle, manacled in a damp, dark dungeon, breathing fetid air and taming toads for companions. John spoke, more to break the stillness than for any other reason. “Has any one the
faintest idea where this road comes out?” he asked. No one had.

“We’re heading due north-west,” said James.

“I’m hopeless about the way,” said Noel, “and I haven’t the slightest idea where due north-west will lead us. Have you, John?”

“None at all,” admitted John. “I’m completely off my bearings, but still a compass is jolly useful, you know; it prevents you from going round in circles, and if we keep going north-west long enough we’re dead certain to arrive somewhere some day.”

“I hope the others aren’t going round in circles,” said James. “They haven’t got a compass.”

When John had seen Noel and Susan stop to put Jill’s saddle back at the bottom of the Nut-walk, he had shouted to Evelyn and Richard, who were a few yards ahead of him, “Oughtn’t we to wait for them?”

“No, they’ll be all right,” Evelyn had answered. But at the top of the hill John’s conscience forced him to wait. Margaret soon pointed this out to Richard, who said, “Well, that’s his look-out. I’m blowed if I’m going to nursemaid Jill,” and had kicked Peter on faster than ever in an attempt to catch up with Evelyn, who was several lengths ahead. When they reached the wood, all three of them had been galloping too fast to notice the smaller trail leading off through the undergrowth; they had gone straight on, through a field and down a lane, until they had seen hats, which looked like Hilary’s and Roger’s, bobbing in the distance.

“There they are,” said Evelyn, who saw them first. “Now we can take a short cut.” She turned and rode Romany at a solid, three-feet-six post and rails into the next field. Romany refused. Evelyn hit her and rode at it again. This time Romany jumped, but she hit the top bar, which was firmly nailed, and nearly fell. Evelyn let her stand for a moment while she watched Richard and Margaret ride their ponies at the fence. They both refused.

“Oh, come on,” said Evelyn impatiently, “I don’t want to stand here watching you refuse.” They each had another unsuccessful try, and then, saying contemptuously, “Gosh, you’re feeble; I’m jolly well not going to wait; you’d better follow the trail,” she galloped off in the direction of the bobbing hats. The sight of Evelyn disappearing into the distance lent strength to Richard’s legs, and Peter, ridden really determinedly, cleared the timber easily. They galloped on, and Margaret was left. She tried everything she could think of to get Pixie over: short runs and long runs, showing her the fence, hitting, kicking and patting her, but Pixie simply said that it was much too high, and she wasn’t going to consider jumping it. In the end Margaret lost her temper. She beat Pixie, and called her all the insulting names she could think of, but it was no use. And when she had had thirty-nine refusals, Margaret reluctantly decided to follow the trail. Pixie, delighted to leave the horrible jump, tore along, neighing occasionally for the other ponies. They cantered down the lane and into another wood, where Margaret, who had all she could do to control Pixie and avoid the trees, suddenly found she had lost the trail. When she managed to pull up she retraced her steps, but somewhere she went wrong, and instead of finding the trail she came out on a heath, covered with gorse and bracken and intersected by a mass of small winding paths. Then she noticed the fog creeping up, and at the same time she realised that she was completely lost. “Oh, Pixie,” she said, “what on earth shall we do?” And she almost started to cry before she remembered that only feeble people—people like Jill Morrisson—cried when they were lost. She rode on until she came to a clearing. Five tiny paths led off in different directions. How Margaret wished for James and his compass. She stood in a quandary, unable to decide which path to take; they all looked exactly alike. Suddenly she thought, Perhaps Pixie knows the way home—perhaps she will be like a pony in a book. And, dropping the reins, she said, “Come on, old lady, take me home. Home, Pixie, home.” Pixie put down her head and grazed. “Oh, you are
a horrid, beastly, greedy pony,” said Margaret tearfully as she wrenched it up. “The fog’s getting thicker than ever and I don’t want to stay out all night. I’m so cold and hungry.” And in spite of it only being feeble people who cry, she burst into tears. Pixie grazed for a few moments, then she turned and set off at a purposeful trot down the smallest and steepest of the little winding paths.

Evelyn had galloped away from the timber jump with the lightest of hearts. She was well in the lead, and, as she had sighted the hares, it could not be long before she caught up with them, which would just prove to Hilary and Roger how silly they were to make such a fuss about her riding Romany in preference to Mrs. Maxton’s lazy old Woodcock. Evelyn was glad that Hilary had won when they tossed up to decide who should ride Northwind, for, if she had won, she could not have said that
he
was dull and lazy, though he was when compared with Romany, family opinion was too strong when it came to criticisms of the ponies.

“You’re much the best of them, old lady,” said Evelyn impulsively as she leant forward and patted Romany’s sweat-soaked neck, marvelling that the pony was still pulling, though lathered from head to foot. When they reached the clump of trees near which Evelyn had seen the bobbing hats, she pulled up and looked about her. To her disappointment there was no one in sight.

“Oh, dash,” she said aloud, “where can they have got to?” She turned abruptly at the sound of hoofs behind her, to see Richard galloping up. “Hallo,” she said, “you got over, then?”

“Yes,” said Richard. “Where are they? Can you see them?”

“Do you think I’d be standing here if I could?” asked Evelyn disagreeably.

“All right, keep your hair on,” said Richard. “But I suppose that means we’ve lost them; that’s what comes of leaving the trail and trying to take short cuts.”

“Why didn’t you stick to the trail, then?” said Evelyn.
“I never asked you to follow me; in fact I’d much rather you hadn’t.”

“Same here,” said Richard. “I don’t believe in following other people—especially girls—but I thought you probably had some inside information, since your family are both the promoters and the hares.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m cheating?” asked Evelyn in a dangerously quiet voice.

“No, I’m not suggesting anything,” said Richard, quite meekly. “Where do you suppose they’ve got to?” Evelyn didn’t bother to answer; she rode on at a trot; Richard followed. After about ten minutes, he said, “Don’t you think it would be a good plan to walk for a bit? I’ve got the most agonising stitch.”

“Gosh, you are a cissy,” said Evelyn, and she trotted faster than ever.

“Look at the fog coming up,” said Richard. “Now we’re going to get properly lost; that’s what comes of relying on girls.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Evelyn. “I’ve told you I don’t want you tagging round after me. Why the dickens don’t you go in another direction?”