"How did you get him into such a mess?" he asked shortly.

"I don't know, I didn't do anything to him," and Reginald kicked the
gravel discontentedly. "I believe he's getting lazy."

"Sultan lazy!" and John laughed incredulously. "That's a good joke! Why,
he is the freest horse on the place!"

"Well, I don't know how else to explain it. He's been on the go pretty
steadily, but what's a horse good for? Thursday afternoon we had our
cross-country run and the ground was horribly stiff. I thought he had
sprained his off foreleg for he limped a good deal on the home stretch,
but he seemed to limber up all right the last few miles. I was sorry not
to let him rest yesterday; would have put him in better trim I suppose
for to-day's twenty mile pull,--but Cartwright and Peterson wanted to
make up a tandem, and when they asked for Sultan I didn't like to
refuse. They are heavy swells, and you know father wants me to get in
with that lot. But that shouldn't have hurt him. They only went as far
as Brighton. What's fifteen miles to a horse!"

"Fifteen miles means thirty to a horse when he has to travel back the
same road," said John drily; "and your heavy swells take the toll out of
horseflesh quicker than a London cabby."

"Why, John, what has come to you? You're the last fellow in the world to
want me to be churlish."

"That's true, Rege,--but I don't want them to cripple you as they have
poor Sultan. What kind of fellows are they?"