Australian Tales - Setis

Will He Kick?
“WILL he kick?” nervously enquired Mr. Bradbury Spriggs, a spruce
little city friend, who was on a visit to my house, as he prepared to mount
my favourite hack.
“Oh dear, no,” I replied, “he's quiet as an old cow.”
“He'll bear the spurs, then, I suppose.”
“Why, yes,” I replied, honestly, “he is livelier for a slight touch of the
spur now and then. I always let him know that I have them on, though it
is very seldom I use them, for I think it is cruelty and ingratitude,
drumming a poor beast's ribs with spurred heels, while he is trudging
along under me.”
“He doesn't shy, does he?” asked Mr. Spriggs again, as he gathered up
his reins, and stuck his legs out straight, to show the fashionable cut of
his pantaloons.
“Not he,” I replied, somewhat impatiently; “he wouldn't shy if he met a
gang of gorillas carrying a turnpike-gate.”
“All right; good-bye,” said Mr. Spriggs. Away he bounded at a brisk
canter; and soon I could catch occasional glimpses of his figure, between
the distant trees in the bush, riding like Tam O'Shanter.
In a few hours he returned, looking fatigued, while the perspiration was
dropping off my steed, and his bleeding sides showed painful evidences
that his rider had given him considerably more than a slight touch of the
spur now and then.
“He's a spendid animal,” remarked Bradbury, with the knowing look of
a connoisseur in horse-flesh, as he slowly dismounted. “I never rode a
beast I liked better. Such paces! and withal so free and gentle; I found,
however, that he required the spur occasionally.”
“Humph!” I quietly ejaculated, as I led my panting favourite towards
the stable — “rather an equivocal appreciation of your merits, my poor
old Jack; but I'll sell you to a knacker before I let that hide-rasper mount
you again.”
* * * * *
It was not a rare occurrence for city friends to pay visits to my house in
those halcyon times. Residing in a pleasant and accessible part of the
country, I had sometimes more visitors than I could entertain to my own