Captain Albutt took the situation in at once.
"Squad halt!" he roared. Be cool, Mr. Prescott! Bring your mount
down with tact, not brute force.
Satan, having taken the bit between his teeth, went tearing around
the tan-bark, not in the least minding the tight hold that his
rider had on the bridle, or the way that the bit cut into his
mouth. Satan blamed his own rider for that sharp, stinging jab,
and he meant to unseat that rider.
Dick kept perfectly cool, though he realized much of his own great
peril with this infuriated beast.
Captain Albutt, watching closely, became anxious when he saw that
the cadet was failing in bringing down the temper of the infuriated
beast.
Satan was more than furious; he was crafty. Master of many tricks,
and with a record for injuring many a rider in the past, the animal
dashed about the tan-bark, seeking some way of throwing his rider.
His uneasiness increasing, Captain Albutt put spurs to his own
mount and went after Satan.
"Steady, Mr. Prescott," admonished the cavalry officer, riding
close. I'll soon have a hand on your bridle, too.
Yet every time that Captain Albutt rode close, Satan waited until
just the right instant, then swerved violently, snatching his
head away from the risk of capture.
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