“Perhaps I do,” sighed Jennie. “You know, I’m a regular sailor on horseback.”
“You should have taken it up when we were all at Silver Ranch with Ann Hicks,” Ruth said.
“Oh, say not so!” begged Jennie Stone lugubriously. “What I should have done in the past has nothing to do with this coming summer. I groan to think of what I shall have to endure.”
“Who will do the groaning for the horse that has to carry you, Heavy?” interposed the irrepressible Helen, giving her the old nickname that Jennie Stone now scarcely deserved.
“Never mind. Let the horse do his own worrying,” was the placid reply. The temper of the well nourished girl was not easily ruffled.
“Why, Jennie, think!” ejaculated Helen, suddenly turned brisk and springing down from the window seat. “It will be just the jaunt for you. The physical culturists claim there is nothing so good for reducing flesh and helping one’s poor, sluggish liver as horseback riding.”
“Say!” drawled the other girl, her nose tilted at a scornful angle, “those people say a lot more than their prayers—believe me! Most physical culturists have never ridden any kind of horse in their lives but a hobbyhorse—and they still ride that when they are senile.”
Ruth applauded. “A Daniel come to judgment!” she cried.
“Huh!” sniffed Jennie, suspiciously. “What does that mean?”
“I—I don’t just know myself,” confessed Ruth. “But it sounds good—and Dr. Milroth used it this morning in chapel, so it must be all right.”