It was, indeed, a fine game, but as dangerous as it was fine; if Billy
had once downed the boy, he would never have left him till he had
ground the life out of him. This Tinker did not know, so that he did
not draw all the excitement out of the game he would have done. It had
grown more and more dangerous, also; for, by dint of playing it, Billy,
who had started as a fat, clumsy, and sulky beast, had grown thin,
nimble, and vicious. Alloway, indeed, often declared that he did not
know what ailed the ram; his food never seemed to be doing him any
good, and neither man, woman, nor child dare cross the field in which
he browsed.
The game lasted some twenty minutes; and Tinker's skill, sureness, and
lightness of movement was the prettiest sight. Sometimes, with a
snorting bleat, Billy would turn sharply at the end of his charge, and
charge again; then the concentration on the matter in hand, which his
father had so carefully cultivated in Tinker, proved a most fortunate
possession: he was never caught off his guard. But he was beginning to
think that he had had enough of it, and Billy was sure that he had,
when there came a roar from the road, and there sat Alloway on his
horse. Or rather, he was no longer sitting on his horse, he was
throwing himself off it.
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