As the man and the boy jogged along the press in the road grew thinner and thinner, and in time resolved itself into a semi-occasional stray rider or belated wagon or two. Dad rode with the careless ease of a lifelong equestrian to whom the saddle was as familiar as a rocking-chair; and his sorrel mount’s occasional passaging and curvets gave the rider not the remotest trouble, nor so much as a conscious thought. With Battle Jimmie it was different. Until the last few months he had never been astride a horse. And hitherto most of his rides had been on the broad back of some caisson or baggage horse whose lumbering gallop was highly uncomfortable, but to whose moorings--or harness--it was possible to cling with an unsportsmanlike grip that was highly needful, in the light of his inexperience. Of late, though, Dad had taken his grandson’s equestrian education in hand, with the result that Jimmie now restrained the keen yearning to seize the pommel of his army saddle or the equally tempting mane of his mount in the effort to stick on. He rode in shortened stirrups, sat his saddle stiffly, held the reins as nearly as possible after the correct and approved army fashion--and during the entire operation was as physically miserable as it was possible for him to be. His horse to-day, a huge, raw-boned bald-face, would have proven a handful for a more expert rider. Jimmie sawed viciously at the brute’s hard mouth more than once; and the horse retaliated by jerking back his head and then suddenly leaning on the bit with a tug that all but pulled the reins free from the rider’s grubby little hands. Dad viewed the boy’s efforts with covert amusement; now and then, as in the case of the jerked reins, offering a word or two of criticism, then of brief, if kindly spoken, advice. “I can stay aboard,” panted Jimmie brokenly, as the horse broke into a hard trot that shook the breath from his lungs. “I can stay aboard, all right. But I could get more fun out of a nice gun-carriage without strings or a--Gee, Emp!” he interrupted himself, apostrophizing the many-breeded dog that frisked coquettishly along just ahead of him. “You ain’t got a ghost of an idea how lucky you are to have four feet instead of riding something that has. And when _you_ sit down you’ve always got something to sit on that won’t jog you up in the air again. Say, Dad, what old duffer ever invented the fool idea that folks mustn’t hang on by the pommel and the mane?” “The same man, I suppose,” responded Dad, “who invented all the rules that pester us. The rule that you mustn’t run away when you’re scared, and that you must tell the truth when a lie would seem to help, and that you must share the half rations you’re so hungry for with the chap who hasn’t any; and every other rule that’s hard to obey and that makes man something better than an animal.