"Oh, not a bad sort," said Reginald carelessly. "Lots of the needful,
you know, and free with it. Not very fond of the grind, but always up to
date when there are any good times going. What do you suppose put Sultan
in such a lather, John? I was so afraid father would catch me that I
came across the fields, and it was just as much as he could do to take
the last fence. I made sure he was going to tumble."

"Well for you he didn't," and John smoothed the delicate limbs with his
firm hand, "these knees are too pretty for a scar. Go into the vet room,
Rege, and bring me out a roll of bandage."

"Hulloa! That will give me away to the governor with a vengeance! What
are you going to bandage him for?"

"He is badly strained, and if I don't his legs will be all puffed by the
morning. It will be lucky if it is nothing worse. He looks to me as if
he was in for a touch of distemper, but I'll give him a powder and
perhaps we can stave it off."

Reginald brought the bandage and then stood moodily striking at a beetle
with his riding whip. He was turning away when a hand with a grip of
steel was laid on his shoulder and he was forced back to where the
beetle lay, a shapeless mass of quivering agony, while a low stern voice
exclaimed,--

"Finish your work! Even the cannibals do that."

Reginald wrenched himself free. "Pshaw!" he said contemptuously, "it's
only a beetle." But he did as he was told.