He was well on with his resolution when he heard another voice, which he recognised clearly.
"Good boy, Ned," cried out this voice heartily, though likewise from some locality yet vague.

"R-ride the divil to a finish, me boy! Git up his head, Ned! Git up his head! The murdering haythin' brute! Kill him! Ride him out!" And ride him out Franklin did, perhaps as much by good fortune as by skill, though none but a shrewd horseman would have hoped to do this feat.

Hurt and jarred, he yet kept upright, and at last he did get the horse's head up and saw the wild performance close as quickly as it had begun.

The pony ceased his grunting and fell into a stiff trot, with little to indicate his hidden pyrotechnic quality.

Franklin whirled him around and rode up to where Battersleigh and Curly had now joined.