all the other cartridges he might need from his friends.
“I must weigh twenty pounds more than Dick Lightfoot and everything counts. What is the pony’s name?”
“Bucephalus,” was the amazing reply.
“Great Cæsar!” laughed Alden; “do you call him that?”
“’Ceph for short; well, good bye!”
Alden waved his hand and was off like a thunderbolt.
Our young friend was hardly out of sight of the little group who stood watching him, when ’Ceph became playful. He had been resting so long that he yearned for exercise and action. As an introduction he reached around and nipped at the rider’s ankle. A horse is quick to learn what kind of man holds the reins, and woe to him whom the equine despises! Bucephalus would not have needed any enlightenment had Harper or any one of the regular riders been in the saddle, but he wasn’t sure about the lusty young fellow who was trying to lord it over him.
When the head came about, and Alden saw what the pony meant, he gave him a vigorous kick on the end of his nose. ’Ceph wasn’t
