- Project Runeberg -  Ivar or the Skjuts-Boy /
12

(1852) [MARC] Author: Emilie Flygare-Carlén Translator: Alex L. Krause
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Full resolution (TIFF) - On this page / på denna sida - Chapter II. The Courier.

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words were addressed to Ivar, who was not in the least abashed
by them, but mounted into the car in an indifferent manner, and
applied a light switch over the haggard loins of his white pony.

"Do you call this driving, fellow?" asked the officer, after a
few moments, giving his neighbour a rough poke in the ribs.

"We are going up a steep hill," replied Ivar, with renewed
composure, which in contrast with such a fire-eater as the courier
seemed to be, almost appeared like audacity. The officer,
however, did not mind the boy’s speech, but remained silent until
when, about half-a-mile from Swarteborg, the white pony having
exrted himself astonishingly at the accustomed treatment of his
young owner, signified by a loud wheezing his resolution not to
go any further. "The scarecrow is altogether fagged out," said
the officer, thinking fit to accompany his opinion with a volley
of curses at landlord, horse, and driver.

Ivar kept silence, not, however, from fear, but because he was
convinced that an answer would avail him nothing.

"Dost thou not hear me, rascal? or art thou a rougue? Dost
thou not see that the horse will break down?"

"By no means," replied Ivar, endeavouring to soothe his
violent neighbour; "but if he does not do so before we reach the
end of our journey," added he, in a low voice, "the gentleman
must treat him more humanely."

"What, boy, wilt thou prescribe to me how I shall drive?
Give me the reins, thou rascal."

And Ivar, unable to retain his right, was forced to submit,
with bleeding heart and burning cheeks, while the officer lashed
his pony continually, and kept him on a gallop. The emaciated
animal wheezed and snorted, and made more than one fruitless
endeavour to stand still, in spite of the whip.

Every sigh of the poor pony, who had been dear to Ivar’s
heart ever since he was able to reach up to him and pat his
shaggy sides, cut like a dagger through the boy’s heart. His
heart was almost swollen within him, with bitter hatred against

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