Read Online King of the Wind by Marguerite Henry - Free Book Online Page B

of his veins showing full and large.
    Under the kind mothering of Mistress Cockburn, Agba thrived, too. She filled his plate with pigeon pie and dumplings, and when she discovered that the boy had a special liking for confections, she saw to it that each day he had a goodly helping of whipped syllabub or almond cake, or perhaps an apple pasty. All the while the boy ate, Mistress Cockburn kept up such a stream of conversation that it was scarcely any time at all before he understood such English words as: eat, poor boy, a bit of cake, beautiful daughter, fat dolt. Mistress Cockburn even found time to teach Agba his letters from her cookery book.
    In return he would show her the amulets in his bag and Sham’s pedigree. Of course she could not read the Arabic writing, but she was tremendously impressed with its importance.

    Fourth Day of Third Month dawned. In spite of the promise of the almanack, there was a fine drizzle in the air. But Jethro Coke was not one to be thwarted by weather. He saw to it that his son-in-law was up and about early. He even fitted him with an oiled cloth cover for his hat and an oiled cloth cape for his shoulders.
    As Agba led Sham, all saddled and bridled, out of his stall and up the winding path to the house, the horse took one look at the flapping figure coming toward him. Then his ears went back and he jolted to a stop. He snorted at the voluminous cape of oiled cloth. He listened to the noise it made as it bellied in the wind. Benjamin Biggle must have seemed like some great monster to him. It was all Agba could do to keep him from galloping back to the barn.
    At sight of Sham, Benjamin Biggle halted, too. For a full moment it looked as if his knees might buckle under his weight. If Sham was afraid of him, it was plain to see that he was twice as fearful of Sham.
    “Be not unnerved, son,” said Mister Coke. “It is thy oiled cloth cape that alarms the creature. Step right up.”
    Agba led Sham to the mounting block, then stood holding the reins.
    “Come, come, Benjamin!” reasoned Mister Coke. “Let not the horse sense thy fear. Here, take the reins thyself. Now then, swing aboard!”
    Shaking in fright, Mister Biggle took the reins. Then with his right hand he took hold of his left foot and tried to thrust it into the stirrup. Instead, he gave Sham a vicious jab in the ribs.
    With a quick side jerk of his head, Sham turned around, knocked Mister Biggle’s hat off, and sank his teeth in the man’s black wig. The moment Sham tasted the pomade, however, he dropped the wig on the rain-soaked path.
    Benjamin Biggle was furious. “I’ll ride the beast if it killsme,” he said between tight lips. And donning his wig at a rakish angle, he swung his leg over Sham’s back, heaved into the saddle and grabbed the reins up short.
    Like a barn swallow in flight Sham wheeled, and with a beautiful soaring motion he flew to the safety of his stall. As he dashed through the door, Benjamin Biggle was scraped off his back and into a mud puddle where he sprawled, his breeches soaked through and the wind knocked out of his body.

    As if this were not enough trouble for one day, Grimalkin pounced on his head, screamed in his face, and ruined what was left of the black wig.
    That afternoon as Agba cleaned Sham’s tackle, a faint sound, very much like a chuckle, escaped him every now and again. Even Grimalkin wore a smirk on his face as he perched on Sham’s crest and watched Agba remove all traces of mud.
    Suddenly Agba looked up to find Mister Coke, Bible in hand, standing in the doorway. His face looked lined and old. For a long time he stood quietly, and the silence was a cord between the boy and himself.
    At last he spoke, using little words and short sentences so that Agba would understand. But if he had used no words at all, Agba would have known.
    “Thou and thy horse and thy cat shall ever be dear to me,” Mister Coke began in halting tones. “Thou must try to understand, lad.”
    Agba looked