he is a true Spanish mule," said the guide, coming up.

Between them, Tom and he soon managed to catch Juan, when, holding
tightly by the reins, the guide vented his displeasure and took his
revenge by thoroughly drumming the poor brute's ribs with a stout stick,
after which Tom mounted, and our journey for the next two hours was
without incident.

But we were not to get to the end of the day without mishap. The sun
had begun to descend, and we were panting along, longing for the sight
of water to quench our burning throats, when Juan began to show that the
pain from the guide's drubbing had evaporated. First of all he indulged
in a squeal or two, then he contrived to kick the mule I rode upon one
of its legs, when, emboldened by the success of the manoeuvre, he waited
his time, and then, sidling up to his companion ridden by the guide, he
discharged a fierce kick at him, nearly catching the guide in the shin;
but the result was a tremendous crack from a stick right upon Juan's
back--a blow which made him shake his head with dissatisfaction till his
ears rattled again.

He had forgotten the pain, though, in ten minutes, and the first hint we
had thereof was a squeal and feat of sleight of _heel_, in which, to all
appearances, Juan stood perpendicularly upon his nose and fore-feet for
half a minute, like a fleshly tripod, while his rider, or rather his
late rider, rolled over and over, the centre of a cloud of impalpable
dust, coughing and sneezing, and muttering fiercely.

"There!" exclaimed Tom, as he jumped up and began beating the dust from
his garments. "That's four times that brute has had me off to-day.
I've rid everything in my time, Mas'r Harry, from a pig up to a parish
bull. I've been on sheep and donkeys, and when I was at the
blacksmith's I rode all sorts of restive beasts as come to be shod, but
I never did get on such a brute as that; his skin don't fit him, and he
slippers about between your legs all sorts of ways; but I mean to ride
him yet. Now just you try him half an hour, Mas'r Harry, to see what
he's like."

"Not I, thank you, Tom," was my reply. "I'm very well content."

"So am I, Mas'r Harry, only he makes me so sore; but I ain't bet yet, I
can tell him. Come over, then!"

But the mule would not "come over, then!" and there ensued a fierce
fight of kicks between Tom and his steed, Tom essaying to kick the mule
for punishment in the ribs; the mule, nowise taken aback, returning the