I applied my toe tentatively to his ribs, and he just grunted.

Frosty got down and led Spikes closer, and together we surveyed the heavily breathing, gray bulk in the sand at our feet.
"If he was the _Yellow Peril_, instead of one of your much-vaunted steeds," I remarked tartly, "I could go at him with a wrench and have him in working order again in five minutes; as it is--" I felt that the sentence was stronger uncompleted.
"As it is," finished Frosty calmly, "you'll just step up on Spikes and go on to Pochette's.

It's only about ten miles, now; Spikes is good for it, if you ease him on the hills now and then.

He isn't the _Yellow Peril_, maybe, but he's a good little horse, and he'll sure take yuh through the best he knows." I don't know why, but a lump came up in my throat at the tone of him.
I put out my hand and laid it on Spikes' wet, sweat-roughened neck.

"Yes, he's a good little horse, and I beg his pardon for what I said," I owned, still with the ache just back of my palate.