“Send for the Master of Horse,” Noel told them as they subsided into fits of giggles.
“Hurry up,” shouted Henry. “It’s time to put the tack on.”
“I’m not nearly ready,” wailed Sally Barkham. “I haven’t even begun to groom Star’s tail yet.”
“Oh, Sally, don’t whine,” her brother told her. “I’ll help you in a minute. Honestly, sisters! Dear little sisters,” he muttered as he absentmindedly dandy brushed Smudges’ mane.
“What about little brothers?” asked Lynne. “I’ve got three—they’re awful.”
“Stop gossiping and hurry,” Henry shouted at them. “You’re supposed to be saddled and bridled by now. The inspection’s in five minutes and you haven’t got your hats yet.”
The panic became tremendous for at that moment the major’s car was observed approaching across the fields. People fled in all directions and threw their tents into frightful confusion in a mad search for crash caps and whips. Noel bridled practically all the small ponies while Henry hurried across the field to waylay his uncle.
“I’ll ask him about the graph for the camp competition,” he shouted to Noel. “Make a face at me when they’re all ready.”
The seniors were ready quite quickly but Noel had to find Joy’s crash cap and Jonathan’s shoes before she could approach within face-making distance of Henry.
“Good morning, Noel,” said Major Holbrooke. “Did you sleep all right?”
“Yes, quite okay, except for a few alarms and excursions,” she answered. “Tommy was the chief escaper.”
“We’ll get him a really strong head collar for tonight,” said the major. And Henry said, “Well, if we’re all ready I’ll call out the rides. We can’t have you all coming out at once,” he told the pony club members, “because it is all too easy to get a pony kicked and we don’t want to spoil the camp with lame ponies or broken legs.” He called out the Dragoons first: Susan Barington-Brown, Marion Hunter, Christopher Minton, Judith Quayle, Donald Edge, Gay Millwood and Poppy Newland.
They arranged themselves in a straight line and mounted while the Lancers and Yeomanry were called out in their turn. The instructors each inspected his own ride. The Dragoons said, “Yes, Major Holbrooke,” and “No, Major Holbrooke,” in a well-behaved manner and listened attentively to his criticisms of their turn-out, but the Lancers bullied Henry to tell them what marks he was giving them and the Yeomanry wailed that Noel was a mean beast when she refused to be intimidated into giving them tens.
“Think of what Christopher’ll say to me, honestly, he’ll be furious,” shrieked Jean. Told that Star was dirty, Sally protested that she had groomed and groomed until her arms ached.
Martin said, “It isn’t fair. How could I help Mousie’s brisket being muddy when I didn’t even know where it was?”
Only Jonathan accepted his marks calmly, “Four, that’s darned awful,” he murmured. “I’ll have to remember her tummy tomorrow.”
They’re terrible, thought Noel looking at her ride with horror as they walked round the school. Rob Roy, the elderly bay pony which Lynne had borrowed for the camp, was several inches too small for her and he walked with small, quick steps, breaking into a jog trot at intervals. But, however fast Rob Roy walked, Pickles, pulling with her head down, was on his tail. Biddy and Jean looked nice, though Jean always sat too far forward, but Mousie, cutting all the corners, was on Biddy’s tail and Tommy was on Mousie’s. Jonathan, riding with his toes down and a short tight rein, dawdled along on Beauty and several lengths behind, at a very reluctant pace, came Star and Sally.
“One horse’s length,” said Noel. “Keep your distances. Lynne, look up. Penelope, stop pulling on the reins and then your pony might stop pulling at you. Ride into your corners, Martin; use your inside leg when Mousie tries to cut them. You’re bending her head to the outside by pulling the outside rein. A horse ought to look in the direction in which he is going.
“Joy, come into the middle; your stirrups look miles too short. Catch up, Jonathan. Catch up, Sally. Use your whips if your ponies don’t obey the legs. Stop kicking.”
Henry’s ride was trotting round the school. He had chosen David Minton to lead. David’s legs were too far forward, his hands were in the air and he was leaning back in a vain attempt to make Fireworks trot slowly. Margaret Radcliffe was bustling blue roan Northwind in pursuit. Carola Birkett, her long legs swaying and flapping on either side of Amber’s weedy frame, trotted languidly four lengths behind. Nicholas, James and Guy were in a bunch, Nicholas’s legs were stuck forward, Guy was riding on Smudges’ ears.
“Ride that horse, Carola,” shouted Henry. “Single file at the back. What the devil do you think you’re doing? Holding a mothers’ meeting? Guy, heels down. Margaret, don’t kick.”
Major Holbrooke looked at his ride with distaste. Susan Barrington-Brown was leading and he observed that she was sitting behind her horse’s centre of balance and, in consequence, she was bouncing about all over the place and the horse was on his forehand instead of going off his hocks. Christopher had got his pony on that usual short tight rein, Marion looked a bit better than she had last summer, but she was still as stiff as the devil, and Poppy what’s-her-name, behind her, had got her horse completely above the bit. Judith on the nice youngster had got her legs too far back and the horse wasn’t going at all. Gay wasn’t having much effect on Sonnet, who, full of grass, was lumbering along like an old cab horse and at the back of the ride the fat boy was kicking his grey cob, which had long ago ceased to pay the slightest attention.
“Stop that kicking!” roared Major Holbrooke.
At twelve o’clock there was a few moments’ break so that the members and instructors could revive themselves with drinks and apples, before the major started work on the activity ride, which was to be performed before the parents on Sunday.
Henry and Noel, determined to see their horses, made a dash for the Land Rover.
“Lord, what a morning!” said Henry as they bumped down the cart track to Folly Court. “My lot were perfectly appalling. I’ve never seen so many monstrous seats; I took their stirrups away and ill-treated them thoroughly.”
“Sadistic beast,” said Noel. “Mine were too bad to ride without stirrups; it was all I could do to get them going round the school. Martin fell off twice, Beauty and Star had a kicking match with Sally screaming her head off. Pickles and Tommy ran away at intervals and Rob Roy made several attempts to join in. In fact the only well-behaved pony was Biddy.”
“A really jolly morning,” said Henry sarcastically. “By the way,” he went on, “I’ve come to the conclusion we must ride independently; you from twelve to one, and I’ll see to the lunchtime stables, and me from one-thirty till two-thirty; with you in charge of the after lunch quiet and saddling up for scavenge hunts and mounted games.”
“O.K.,” agreed Noel, “but you’ll get much the worst of it—some nice work at the sitting trot with your lunch bumping up and down inside you.”
Major Holbrooke had chosen Susan Barington-Brown and Marion Hunter as leaders for the activity ride and Christopher was furious. It was all very well, he thought angrily, to say that the big horses must go in front, but everyone knew that Marion was a completely inefficient drip and Susan not much better. He took every opportunity to expose the inefficient leadership. He changed the rein from quarter marker to quarter marker with elaborate care, showing up the slightest deviations of the leaders; when they lost their cadence, he kept his, even if it meant dropping more than a length behind. If anyone turned too soon or too late or misunderstood a command, Christopher rode the movement with precision, not caring how much confusion he caused in the ride.
But the major was too busy roaring at the small people to catch up and keep up and use their legs or their brains—if they had any—to notice what was going on in front. At the end of half an hour he had managed to get the ride going round the school in reasonable order; he had roared until everyone could number by the left or right; he had divided the
m into two rides and by dint of much cursing had manoeuvred them down the centre in pairs.
“Well, that’s enough for today,” he said, when he had called them to a halt, “but tomorrow we are going to be much more energetic.”
“More energetic,” said Jean Millwood as they rode off to the horse lines, “honestly, my legs are practically dropping off now.”
“So are mine,” said Gay in depressed tones, “they’re aching like mad and I simply can’t get Sonnet going. I should think I’m ruining her.”
“Oh, Gay, you’re not,” Lynne told her, “she looks super to me.”
“You need specs then,” said Gay. “She didn’t look super to the major, I can tell you that much; he was roaring at me like mad, but my legs simply wouldn’t work any harder.”
“Well, goodness, I had the worst of it,” Susan told her.
“No, you didn’t,” contradicted Christopher, “that lump Donald did, and he deserved it. He oughtn’t to be in our ride at all.”
“Oh, it was shocking,” said Poppy Newland. “If you ask me, he was mad with the lot of us.”
Henry was back in the horse lines. “Take your tack off and tie the ponies up,” he said. “We’re going to water at the trough and we’ll water in fours. Four ponies at the trough and four waiting half-way between the lines and the trough, and we’ll begin with the top end of the line. “Noel,” he called, “will you go to the trough and keep them in order?”
“O.K.,” said Noel, giving a final shake to the lunchtime hay.
Christopher, finding that William was in the third four, wandered off to speak to Major Holbrooke, who was watching the scene with interest.
“We’re definitely entering a team for the Inter-branch competition this year, aren’t we, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, I think we must make the effort this year or headquarters will begin to think we’re unco-operative. We had a good excuse last year—the train accident.”
“Yes, it was an awful disappointment to those of us who’d qualified for the Advanced Competition. Still, we’re available for the team this year—or at least Susan and I are. I suppose you’re going to choose them from the Dragoons, the team I mean?”
“Talent will out,” answered the major. “I don’t mind what ride it comes from as long as it appears.”
“I was thinking,” said Christopher, “that it seemed rather a waste of time going over that same old schooling stuff again, when there’s only three weeks to go before the Inter-Branch. Couldn’t we get all the probables for the team together in the Dragoons and start practising the test? I’m willing to work really hard on it and so are two or three of the others; we could chuck out the people who are below standard; Noel and Henry wouldn’t mind having an extra one or two in their rides.”
“My dear Christopher,” said Major Holbrooke, “you have hold of the wrong end of the stick. No one has ever improved his dressage by practising tests; it is only by going on and on with what you call the old schooling stuff that the horses will become balanced and supple and, in consequence, you will be able to ride a better test.”
“Yes, I know,” said Christopher, “but you could concentrate more on improving us, I mean the team, if we weren’t always being held up by people who are obviously hopeless.”
“No one is hopeless,” answered the major, “it’s just that some are worse than others. And I can remember a time when Mr. Christopher Minton was a good deal worse than quite a number of others.”
“I was never as hopeless as all that,” said Christopher quickly. “I had some go in me.”
“You mean Fireworks had,” the major told him with a grin, and then he pointed out, “You’re wanted in the horse lines; you’re holding up the watering arrangements.”
Major Holbrooke stayed to lunch, which alarmed Henry.
“Look here, Uncle George, you’re not going all boy scouty in your old age, are you? It seems distinctly peculiar that you should stay up here eating camp food out of dogs’ dishes when you could be lunching in a civilised manner at the house.”
“I think it’s rather nice up here,” answered the major, “and, after all, I can eat in a civilised manner all the rest of the year; though I don’t think I set as much store by civilisation as you do.”
“That’s just what I was afraid of,” said Henry with a groan. “Noel, this is only the first sign; he’ll insist on sleeping on a camp bed soon. But I draw the line at shorts, Uncle George. I just couldn’t bear to have the sort of uncle who prances about in khaki shorts being bracing and campified.”
“I’ll drive into Gunston this afternoon and buy some,” said the major. “I’ll bring you a pair too, but Noel’ll have to get her own.”
“You can’t,” said Henry in triumphant tones, “it’s early closing day.”
“Where’s that Hemlock-Jones girl?” demanded the major suddenly. “Miss Sinclair, where’s your assistant?”
“Now, let me see, I think she’s exercising her horse, Quaver, isn’t it? Rather an unusual name. Yes, I think that’s right. She did mention it to me, just after breakfast, I think, but it might have been a little later. Yes, that’s right, it was after I had had a word with Mrs. Quayle about the shopping and paying the ice-cream man.”
“Hm. Doesn’t sound as though she’s being very useful,” said the major.
“Well, she seemed rather anxious about the horse and I managed the tent inspection quite well alone. I took my little book along and wrote down all the marks and now, if everyone’s finished, perhaps I could say a few words to the children on just that subject?”
“Members,” muttered Henry, and then he banged on the table with a fork and said, “Silence for the Adjutant, please.”
Miss Sinclair talked in a very roundabout way for rather a long time. At first, the people who were making especial efforts to collect marks listened attentively, but towards, the end of an explanation of how to roll up beds when you weren’t airing them, everyone was thinking of other things.
“If any beds do get damp,” said the major in an aside to Noel, “tell my wife; she’ll provide some blankets while they’re being dried.”
When Miss Sinclair had finished, Henry got up and said, “You are now to go and read or talk in your tents until half-past two, when Mr. Marquis—the veterinary surgeon—is very kindly coming to talk on minor ailments and elementary first aid. Afterwards we shall have tea and after tea we are going to saddle up the ponies and play some mounted games. Will someone please tell the line guard section—the Blacks, isn’t it?”
Gay offered to tell Marion and the members, except the Reds, who were giggling over the washing up, removed themselves to their tents. The major and Henry began to discuss how they should arrange the benches for the talk and Noel was reading the Pony Club Instructor’s Handbook.
The veterinary lecture was amusing as well as instructive, which was just as well for the afternoon was hot and the members were short of sleep. Several people were seen to yawn, but only Miss Sinclair reached the nodding stage and luckily she was sitting right at the back, out of Mr. Marquis’s view.
After tea it was cooler and everyone rushed up to the horse lines eager to ride. Henry and Noel couldn’t think of any mounted games in which Star, Tommy, Pickles and Mousie wouldn’t be offered an opportunity to kick, so they decided to have races instead. They began with relay races between the sections and then they had senior and junior bending and potato races, in which the individual winners could score marks for their sections, and finally a Gretna Green race in which every section entered two pairs. Half-way through, Henry decided that marks were a bad thing; they made people too competitive: Margaret Radcliffe was riding like a windmill and using her stick on poor Northwind, who was galloping as fast as he could, Martin Minton was practically in tears because Mousie wouldn’t go near the bucket, into which he was trying to drop the potatoes, and when Christopher found that the Orange section was gaining the most marks, he did nothing but curse his own section for feebleness. He w
as even more annoyed when David and Gay won the Gretna Green at a tremendous speed while he was nearly pulled off backwards by Carola Birkett.
“What super fun,” said Gay dismounting and patting Sonnet, when Henry announced that it was now time for evening stables.
“All very well for you,” Margaret told her, “you’re in a decent section. My section’s nothing but the most awful hopeless drips on earth. Donald’s so stupid he oughtn’t to be a section leader, Poppy’s not bad, but she’s useless at races and as for Martin, he can’t do a thing, how’d you like to have him as your partner in a Gretna Green race?”
“He can’t help it,” said Gay, “Mousie’s awfully difficult, she’s nervous of nearly everything.”
“Ugh,” said Margaret Radcliffe, “if there’s anything I hate, it’s nervous ponies.”
That night after the members, who were all completely exhausted, had retired to bed, Noel and Henry sat in the barn trying to work out the marks.
“Miss Sinclair has marked each tent as a whole,” said Henry, “so we’ve got to divide the marks by four. Have you got the tent list? Read out who lives where and I’ll add their marks to their horse inspection ones. Now,” he said, when that was done, “have you got any good or bad marks for anyone?”
“Well, I think Penelope and Jean ought to have them for catching ponies last night and really Gay, Margaret, Lynne and Marion ought to have them too.”
“Oh, you’ll be giving good marks to the whole camp soon,” said Henry with a smile. “I shall give one to Nicholas because he’s been keeping the peace among the Mintons. And one each to Susan and Marion because they’re so frightfully obliging about helping all those inconsequent tots in the lines. Uncle George didn’t produce any extras, but Merry’s given me pages. Considering how little time she has spent in camp it’s odd that she should give more marks than the rest of us.”
“They’re nearly all bad,” said Noel.
“Yes, she does seem to be rather vindictive, especially towards the Greens. She appears to need a torrent of water to wash in.”
Pony Club Camp (Noel and Henry Book 5) Page 4