Tom does what he has seen cowboys doing in the moving pictures: he stretches his legs and kicks, hard, at the flanks of the pony. This is much less easy and as a result a good deal less satisfying than it appears in the pictures, but it has an immediate effect. Vulcan lurches forward and breaks into a sprightly canter, head down, heading for the nearest wall. Tom, taken completely by surprise, jerks backward. He still has hold of the reins, though there is far too much slack, and he almost goes over the back of the saddle. But the belly goes out of the reins just in time and now he is catapulted forward. His head meets the ridge of the pony’s neck and his mouth is instantly stuffed with the thick, wiry hair of its mane. He can’t see anything except hair and a blur of muddy grass. One of his feet is out of its stirrup. He wraps his fingers desperately into the pony’s mane, lifts his head in time to see the lichen-speckled stone of the wall rearing up ahead. Daddy is yelling something at him but he can’t make out any words. The reins … Where are the reins? He lets go with one hand, gropes around on the plunging neck until his fingers find leather. Gripping on, he manages the same with his other hand. By this time he is sobbing with fear and desperation, but there is only one thought in his head: Don’t fall off. For heaven’s sake, stay on. Moaning with fear, he gets himself upright in the saddle. The pony, directionless but weighed down with a useless passenger, is charging along the length of the wall. Tom’s left leg is inches away from the uneven stones.

‘Turn him!’ Daddy is stalking across the field after them. Tom has no idea what he means. But he knows he should be doing something with the reins, so he shortens his grip and pulls back as hard as he can. Vulcan comes to an abrupt halt, and Tom finds himself weightless, floating in a cloud of horse-smell and mizzle. Then, with an awful thud, he hits the ground.

Tom is looking up from the nettle patch in which he has landed at Daddy’s face, red with anger under the brim of his trilby.

‘What the devil were you playing at?’ Daddy barks.

‘Sorry,’ says Tom, biting his lip. The last thing he wants to do is cry, which always makes Daddy angry, but he can feel hot tears in his eyes already. His hands are smarting from the nettles, and there is a strong, dull pain in his left shoulder.