"That horse," she answered. "That's my aunt's horse. She
sold him a few days ago."
"By George! " ejaculated Uncle Beamish, unconsciously raising
his voice a little. "Wilson bought him, and his bringin' us here
is as plain as A B C. And now he don't want to leave home."
"But he has got to do it," said I, jerking the horse's head
to one side and giving him a cut with the whip.
"Don't whip him," whispered Miss Burroughs; "it always makes
him more stubborn. How glad I am I thought of the bells! The
only way to get him to go is to mollify him."
"But how is that to be done?" I asked anxiously.
"You must give him sugar and pat his neck. If I had some sugar
and could get out--"
"But you haven't it, and you can't git out," said Uncle
Beamish. "Try him again doctor!"
I jerked the reins impatiently. "Go along!" said I. But he
did not go along.
"Haven't you got somethin' in your medicine-case you could
mollify him with?" said Uncle Beamish. "Somethin' sweet
that he might like?"
For an instant I caught at this absurd suggestion, and my
mind ran over the contents of my little bottles. If I had known
his character, some sodium bromide in his morning feed might, by
this time, have mollified his obstinacy.
"If I could be free of this blanket," said I, fumbling at the
pin behind me, "I would get out and lead him into the road."
"You could not do it," said Miss Burroughs. "You might pull
his head off, but he wouldn't move.
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