Six Ponies by Josephine Pullein-Thompson Page B

want a turn.
    “Oh, I should love one,” said Noel, “but I’m not having a pony.”
    “That doesn’t make any difference,” said the Major. “Come on.”
    So Noel gave Beauty, whom she had been holding, to Susan, murmuring, “I’m sure to do something silly—I’ll probably let her go.”
    “What’s that?” asked the Major.
    Noel blushed and said, “I was only saying that I’d probably let her go.”
    “You are a Uriah Heep, aren’t you?” said the Major, handing her the lunge-rein. Noel felt even more embarrassed. She went scarlet in the face and dropped the whip. Oh, goodness, she thought miserably, why ever did I come?
    “What does Uriah Heep mean?” asked Susan of no one in particular.
    “Susan!” said Evelyn in shocked tones.
    “Gosh!” said John.
    “Do you mean to say you don’t read Dickens?” asked Richard in an incredulous voice.
    “Oh, it comes from Dickens, does it?” said Susan quite unabashed. “I’ve never read any of his books—they look awfully dull.”
    “Don’t I know it,” said John. “I’ve just read
Great Expectations
for my holiday task.”
    “Do you mean to say you don’t
like
Dickens?” asked Richard.
    “I do,” said John. “I think
Oliver Twist
and
David Copperfield
are the best, but I’d rather read something by Robert Louis Stevenson or the Scarlet Pimpernel books any day.”
    “But you
can’t
dislike Dickens,” said Richard. “I mean he’s famous—everyone likes him.”
    “Of course he can dislike him if he wants to,” said Roger. “What’s the point in pretending to like an author just because he’s famous or other people like him? The other people may be wrong.”
    “The Scarlet Pimpernel books are only suitable for people of ten,” said Richard scornfully.
    “Well, how old are you?” asked Roger in a pointed manner.
    “I don’t agree with you, Richard,” said the Major, joining in. “Certainly they are not well written when compared with Dickens, but they have a spirit of adventure which can be appreciated by a greater mental age than ten, especially in these dull and rather colourless times, and I must confess I find them more exciting and no more ridiculous than the average present-day detective story; though this does not prevent me from enjoying Aristotle in another mood. After all, champagne and caviare at the Ritz do not take the pleasure from bread and cheese and beer at a country inn.”
    “But all the same,” said Richard rather sulkily, “I can’t understand any one not liking Dickens.”
    “I think that, to most people, the classics are an acquired taste,” said Major Holbrooke. “That’s why they make you read them at school. John will probably enjoy Dickens when he’s older, though I must admit I find a lot of his work infernally dull, while you have already acquired the taste. I expect you read him originally to please your parents, who probably thought it very clever, while John’s thought cricket more important.”
    “That’s right,” said John. “Dad often says he doesn’t want me to become a learned guy with long hair and a fancy tie. He says it’s the games that count.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t altogether agree with him,” said Major Holbrooke; and then to Noel, who, finding no one was paying the least attention to her, had ceased to worry, and had therefore managed Black Magic quite easily, he said:
    “It wasn’t so dreadfully difficult after all, was it?”
     

     
    “No,” said Noel, dropping the whip and tangling the lunge-rein round her legs. “It was lovely—she’s awfully good.”
    “You had better have a turn now, Roger,” said the Major. And then, when Roger had finished, he told James and Margaret Radcliffe, to their annoyance, that they were too small, and, taking the rein, he showed the way to teach a horse to jump, beginning with a pole on the ground and working up to two feet six—the highest Black Magic had learned to jump so far.
    Just at the end of the jumping, Mrs.