“Didn’t you? Well, you see––”
At that instant the pony suffered a fresh access of alarm. He bounded suddenly sideways, and at the same time ducked as if he purposed to stand on his head, though what good that would have done only he knew. The movement threw Smythe over the pony’s head, and flat on his back in the dust; and in a twinkling Peanuts was dashing up the road, with his tail in the air, and the stirrups flapping at his sides.
For some seconds Smythe lay half-stunned; but before Marion and Hillyer, leaping from the automobile, were able to reach him, he sat up, and began to straighten out his crushed sombrero, eyeing it critically. He was covered with dust, and one end of his white collar, torn from the button, stuck out above his coat. But his aplomb was perfect.
“As I was saying, when interrupted,” he began, continuing to minister to the sombrero, “you see I am an accomplished horseman.”
Marion and Hillyer broke out in uncontrollable laughter. Then Hillyer hastened to assist Smythe to rise.
“Not hurt, I hope?” said Robert.
“Objectively, no. Subjectively, yes. Sartorially, a wreck.”
They laughed now without restraint, which seemed to please Smythe immensely. He proceeded to tuck the end of the torn collar back into its place, where it refused to stay; to brush his clothes; to adjust the abused sombrero in exactly the long-studied angle on his head.
“I hope you’ll forgive us for laughing,” said Marion, “but––”