His rider grasped the horn of his saddle.
"Look out, don't let him buck," he called.
But Dexter had again become motionless, except for a recurrent trembling under this monstrous infliction.
"Now, there," began the artist.

"Hold that.

You're looking off over the Western hills.

Atta boy! Wait till I get a side view." "Move your camera," said the rider.

"Seems to me he doesn't want to turn around." But again the artist turned Dexter half around.