HOW impossible Father was to understand! Why couldn’t he decide about the little horse that Carlstrom had said “the young gentleman” might ride? Johnny Blossom had been out to the Kingthorpe stables a number of times to see the horse. My, oh, my! but it was a beauty! It was small and trim, dun-colored, with black mane; and oh, how swiftly and gracefully it could run on those slender legs! No, Father could have no idea how remarkable it was that Carlstrom had offered to let him ride—and such a horse as that!

However, one morning in the first week of vacation, Father said: “You may begin to ride now, John. I had a talk with Carlstrom yesterday.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“I do not need to say that you must be kind to the horse and do exactly as Carlstrom says.”

“Of course. I’m going now.” And Johnny Blossom ran at topmost speed, so as not to lose a second’s time in getting out to the little yellow horse.

Carlstrom was extraordinarily kind.

“We could have sent the horse in to the young gentleman,” he said, with extreme politeness.

“Let the horse go away into town just for me!” said Johnny, amazed. “Oh, no. It is better that I should run out here. I ran like the wind.”

Oh, what joy it was to ride! It was like having wings and flying through the air! Carlstrom showed him just how to hold the reins and to sit on the horse; and the little horse trotted and John rose in the saddle, and his face shone.

“Thank you very much.” He bowed low to Carlstrom when at last he must go home.

After this, the moment he had swallowed his breakfast, off he would run to Kingthorpe; come home at noon, eat his dinner, and run straight out there again.

Father said it was best he should not ride in the town, but only out near Kingthorpe. Naturally, however, it was not long before the boys knew that Johnny Blossom, every single day, trotted around Kingthorpe on a beautiful horse; and of course the boys flocked out to Kingthorpe. They sat by the big pine tree and waited until Johnny Blossom came riding along. It was great fun for him when they thronged around him, exclaiming over everything, while he sat erect in the saddle, whip in hand.

Even the great big boys of the Fourth Class came. Otto Holm himself, who wore a stiff hat and carried a cane, sat and waited to see him, little Johnny Blossom! By and by it came about that they asked if they might not ride, just a little way—Otto Holm and Peter Prytz and Gunnar Olsen, and it was too embarrassing to say no to such great big fellows.

“If you want to play ball with us in the afternoons, you may,” said Otto.

Indeed Johnny Blossom wanted to! He had hung over the fence day after day, looking at the big boys, who played in their shirt sleeves and without caps, and looked so manly. And these boys were asking him to play with them! Of course they must ride, they were so very friendly to him. It made him feel quite grand, too, to be the one to decide whether they should ride or not.

“It isn’t worth while for you to say anything at home about our riding,” said Otto. Oh, no! Johnny wouldn’t say anything.

Day after day he found the group of big boys waiting for him. They did not embarrass him now by asking for rides, but took his permission so for granted that he himself had scarcely any chance to ride. However, it was interesting, because it was his horse, after all, and they kept appealing to him.

“Isn’t it my turn now, Johnny Blossom?”

“He’s mean, he is. It’s mine!”

“Are you crazy? He rode only yesterday, John.”

“Oh, John! Tell him to get off and let me ride!”

“Don’t you do it! It’s really my turn.”

My, oh, my! How exciting it was!

Bob—that was the horse’s name—knew Johnny whenever he went into the stable; there was no doubt about that, for the little horse would turn around in his stall and whinny at the sound of the boy’s step or voice. Of course Johnny always had sugar for him and brushed his pretty coat for him every day—dear, cunning little Bob!

One day Otto Holm proposed that they should see who could ride most quickly over a certain distance. Otto, who of course had a watch, should manage the starting; and Peter Prytz should be timekeeper at the turning point; and the time was to be kept strictly, even to the seconds, exactly as in real races. They all thought Otto’s idea a fine one, but again they said to Johnny, “Now don’t go and tattle about this at home, for then all the fun would be over.”

Oh, no, Johnny would tell nothing. Great sport this race was going to be for him, because of course he would ride the swiftest of all, being the most accustomed to riding. The boys devoted several days to practising for the great race which was to come off on Saturday.

The weather that day was damp and close, and the roads were very muddy because it had rained hard through the night; but all the boys were assembled at the big pine tree when Johnny Blossom rode up. They cast lots to determine the order in which they should ride. Otto had a notebook and pencil and wrote the names. Johnny Blossom’s, to his disgust, came last of all.

Otto rode first. He snapped the whip and galloped off, making the mud fly in every direction. There was much disputing among the waiting boys as to whether he started at three or four seconds after eleven.

Why! There he was back again. “Six minutes and eight seconds going,” he shouted, “and eight minutes and one second coming back!”

The others went each in turn, all making fine speed. Johnny Blossom gave Bob two lumps of sugar after every trip.

Finally, it was Johnny’s turn. “You are really too little to ride properly,” said Otto. “We’ll allow you double time.”

Too little! Were they crazy? Indeed he wouldn’t have double time. He would ride better than any of them, he would. Who was it owned the horse? He would show them who could ride best; and he struck Bob sharply. “Away with you, Bob! Faster! Faster!”

But Bob was so queer today. And he breathed so strangely. He had been breathing something like that these last few days, but today it was worse, and he didn’t hurry even when Johnny struck him again with the whip. Finally he almost stopped, and breathed more queerly than ever.

Oh, dear! Johnny was in despair. The boys had all been much quicker than he, and they would just say that he was too little and must be allowed double time.

“Hurry up, Bob, I tell you!”

At last he reached the turning point. Peter Prytz, who kept the time there, laughed uproariously.

“That was awfully well done, Johnny Blossom! Only twelve minutes.”

What a shame, what a shame that he should be the poorest rider of all! On the way back he whipped Bob so that the horse finally ran, puffing, coughing, and stumbling along.

All the boys laughed and shouted hurrah when Johnny got back to the starting point. How disgusting it was to have people make fun of you!

“Bob breathed so,” said Johnny Blossom.

“Is it anything to worry about when a horse breathes?” scoffed Gunnar Olsen. “He breathed like a bellows when I rode, but yet I took only eight minutes and four seconds.”

“Six seconds, you mean,” said Otto.

“No, four, exactly.”

“It was six.”

“It was four.”

There they stood with their angry faces close together as they quarreled over the two seconds. It seemed as if the dispute might end in blows.

“It’s pretty bad, the way you’ve ridden today,” said Lars Berget soberly, when Johnny Blossom came into the stable with Bob. “He is all used up, poor Bobby!”

“He breathes so queerly,” said Johnny Blossom.

“If you only haven’t broken his wind, boy. Pretty risky—to ride him the way you have these last days.”

Oh, dear! How dreadful! At home no one knew a thing about anything, and here he had behaved like this and perhaps hurt Bob. To “break a horse’s wind” was dangerous he knew, because he had heard about one of the livery stable horses that had to be shot on account of being “broken-winded.” But Bob! It was impossible that it should go that way with Bob! Oh, it couldn’t!

“Why, John dear, aren’t you eating anything?” asked Mother that noon.

Oh, he had had enough—plenty.

“It seems to me you are very pale,” pursued Mother. “Are you sure you are not sick?”

Pooh! Far from it. He wasn’t the least bit pale.

Oh, they didn’t know anything about the trouble with Bob, and he didn’t dare to say a word about the racing or anything.

As soon as they left the table, back he ran to Kingthorpe. When he went into the stable Carlstrom was standing looking at Bob.

“It’s a dark outlook here for the young gentleman,” said Carlstrom. “The horse’s wind is broken.”

Johnny Blossom sat down upon a box, with his hands thrust deep in his pockets, and stared at Bob; but not a word passed his lips.

“The best thing to do is to shoot him at once,” continued Carlstrom.

Away darted Johnny Blossom without a word. Out of the stable, across the grounds, and up to an outlying field he ran as if for dear life. In a far corner of the field he threw himself down, and burying his face in the grass cried bitterly, and so hard that his whole body shook with his sobbing.

Oh, Bob, Bob! And he, who was heir of Kingthorpe, had abused the little horse! What would Uncle Isaac say if he knew? And now he could never ride horseback any more! Oh—oh—oh! He must go home and tell Mother. It was dreadful to do it, but he must, he must.

When he passed Kingthorpe, he took care not to glance in that direction; it would be too sad to see the stable and all that. He had a lump in his throat the whole way and was in utter misery, but he kept on running doggedly. When some boys called to him he only ran the faster, without looking back.

Mother sat alone on the veranda. How good that she was alone! John sat down on the steps, all doubled together, and said not a word.

“Well, John,” said Mother, “is anything the matter?”

“Yes, there is something—something perfectly dreadful, Mother, but I’ve got to tell you about it.”

“Yes, that is best, little John.”

“But it is a terrible thing. Carlstrom says that I’ve ruined Bob riding him so hard and that Bob must be”—

Johnny could say no more, but threw himself flat on the floor and cried. By degrees Mother got him to tell about the big boys, who wanted to ride, about the racing and everything.

“It was really shameful of those great big boys,” said Mother.

“Yes, but Father said I was to be kind to Bob, and careful of him—and I haven’t been,” sobbed Johnny. “And besides, I am the heir of Kingthorpe, you know, Mother.”

Johnny’s face was swollen with crying, and the tears had made streaks down his dirty cheeks.

“Of course you should have spoken to Father and Mother about it.”

“Yes.”

Mother put him down on the sofa and washed his hot, tear-stained face. Some time after he exclaimed, “Mother.”

“Yes, little John?”

“Do you think Uncle Isaac up in heaven is sorry he made me heir of Kingthorpe, because of this with Bob?”

“No, I do not believe he is.”

“Are you sure of it?” Johnny’s blue eyes gazed earnestly at his mother.

“Yes. Perfectly sure.”

There was something else he wished to ask, but he scarcely liked to—perhaps it was silly. Well, he could ask Mother about it, though he wouldn’t ask any one else in the whole world.

“Mother dear, don’t you think that Bob will surely go to heaven when he dies?”