We got very warm and red at
it, and oftentimes poor Jack, dripping with sweat like his riders,
seemed to have been boiled in that kettle.
In Scotland we had often been admonished to be bold, and this advice
we passed on to Jack, who had already got many a wild lesson from
Indian boys. Once, when teaching him to jump muddy streams, I made him
try the creek in our meadow at a place where it is about twelve feet
wide. He jumped bravely enough, but came down with a grand splash
hardly more than halfway over. The water was only about a foot in
depth, but the black vegetable mud half afloat was unfathomable. I
managed to wallow ashore, but poor Jack sank deeper and deeper until
only his head was visible in the black abyss, and his Indian fortitude
was desperately tried. His foundering so suddenly in the treacherous
gulf recalled the story of the Abbot of Aberbrothok's bell, which went
down with a gurgling sound while bubbles rose and burst around. I had
to go to father for help. He tied a long hemp rope brought from
Scotland around Jack's neck, and Tom and Jerry seemed to have all they
could do to pull him out.
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