The mule evinced surprise, then curiosity. His fore feet relaxed, his eye lost its fire, and when a gentle pressure fell upon his halter, he was too engrossed in the new sensation to resist it.
“Bravo, Miss Lady!” called Gerald, sauntering forward to meet her. “I told you you were irresistible. What did you whisper in his ear?”
“Lots of things!” she said, accepting his immaculate handkerchief to wipe the mud from her hands, “but of course the mud helped. Uncle Jimpson taught me that trick. He says a mule has room in his head for only one thought at a time, and all you have to do is to change his balking thought for some other and he'll go.”
“I hope you will never have to put mud in my mouth,” said Gerald, looking at her with no attempt to conceal his admiration. “Can't you come over and see mother for a bit? She'd love to give you a cup of tea.”
“I don't like tea in the afternoon; it spoils my supper.”
“Well, then, come over to see me. There's a friend of mine I want you to meet. I've been telling him about you.”
“I can't. I'm drawing pictures for Bertie. He'll be disappointed.”
“So will I. So will Decker.”
“Decker?” Miss Lady flashed a glance at him. “You don't mean Cropsie Decker?”
“Yes, I do; the special correspondent for the Herald-Post. Is that sufficient inducement?”