"Give up, you ugly old rascal, or I'll twist this round your long neck," cried Dyke; and a great chorus arose from the pens, as if the tame birds within the wire fence were imploring the great truant to be good, and come home. But nothing was further from the great bird's thoughts. It could easily now have darted away, but it felt that it was driven to bay, and began to show fight in the most vicious fashion, snapping its flat beak, hissing, snorting, rattling its plumage, and undulating its long neck, as it danced about, till it looked like a boa constrictor which had partially developed into a bird. Then it dashed at its pursuer, snapping at him in its rushes. But the bill was not the thing to mind; a few lashes with the whip were enough to ward off its attack. The danger to be avoided came from those tremendous legs, which could deliver kicks hard enough to break a man's bones. Three times over did the great bird strike at Dyke, as it was driven down to the pen with lash after lash of the whip, which wrapped round the neck, as the head rose fully eight feet above the ground. Then came another stroke which took effect, not upon Dyke's leg, but upon the horse's flank, just behind the stirrup, in spite of the clever little animal's bounds to avoid the kicks. What followed was instantaneous. The horse whirled round, snorting with pain, and struck out at his enemy, sending out its heels with such violence and effect, that they came in contact with one of the ostrich's shanks, and the next moment the giant bird came to the ground, a heap of feathers, from which the long neck kept darting, and one leg delivering heavy blows. CHAPTER FOUR. ANOTHER FAILURE? "Why, Dyke, boy, you've done it now," cried Joe Emson, cantering close up, his horse snorting as the ostrich struck at him with its snake-like head. "Yes, you had better have left me where I was by the spring," said the boy disconsolately. "I hated the old wretch, but I didn't want to hurt him." "I know, my lad, I know," said Emson. "I'm not blaming you, but it does seem a pity. What bad luck I do have with these birds, to be sure.--Lie still, you savage; you can't get up!" This to the bird, which, after striking at him two or three times, made a desperate effort to rise, fluttering and beating with its wings, and hopping a little, but trailing its broken leg as it made for the pen, within which were all its friends. "Yes, you had better have stayed at home, old fellow," said Dyke, apostrophising the unhappy bird; "then you wouldn't have got into this state.--I say, Joe, couldn't we set its leg? It would soon grow together again." "If he were one of the quiet old hens, I'd say yes; but it would be impossible. Directly we went near, there would be a kick or a peck."