“Really? Do you notice a difference?” demanded Betty eagerly.
“Yes, and lots of it,” declared Georgia, “so don’t work too hard this year creating the proper college spirit, because you don’t need to. And don’t worry about our killing off your freshman. Unless I see that she’s a very good rider on our trial trip, I’ll make her swap off the Imp with one of the girls who can surely manage him, and take old Polly. Old Polly wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Montana Marie’s pet saddle and riding clothes did not come until just in time for Mountain Day, but Georgia took her, according to promise, for the practice ride, borrowing Straight Dutton’s skirt for her, and explaining that it was Harding custom not to bother about hats.
Montana Marie listened graciously to Georgia’s sage advice about being very careful until you knew your horse; and she made no objection to starting out on Polly, who was a meek-looking, gentle-gaited bay with one white foot,—the idol of timid beginners in Harding riding circles. But before they had gone a mile, Montana Marie drew rein and announced pleasantly that she couldn’t ride Polly a step further.
“I suppose I must be too heavy for her. She seems so tired, and she lags behind so. Would you be willing to change with me, Miss Ames? You are lighter, and you are used to Polly’s ways. You don’t blame me, do you, for hating to use up a horse?”
So Montana Marie rode Georgia’s favorite Captain, who single-footed by choice but would canter if crowded to it. He cantered with Montana Marie all the way to Far-away Glen, the destination of the party. There they dismounted to drink out of a mountain spring, and Montana Marie somehow settled it that the groom from the stables should go back on Polly, Captain being restored to Georgia, and the skittish roan named Gold Heels left for herself. Georgia protested anxiously, but Montana Marie smiled and reassured her.
“Why, you can’t worry about me, Miss Ames. I’ve ridden all my life,” she said, making the roan curvet and prance on purpose. “I guess I rode before I walked. But these pancake saddles are the limit, I think. Just you wait till my own outfit comes, and then I’ll show you some real riding. My, but it seems like old times to be on a horse! I had just one ride all the time we were in Paris. Riding in a park is too slow for me, and besides I hate side-saddles—you can’t use anything else over there, you know—as I hate—select schools for girls,” added Montana Marie in an unwonted burst of confidence.
“So you’re glad to be back in America?” asked Georgia idly.
“I should say I am, Miss Ames. Some day you’ll know, maybe, just how glad I am.”
Georgia was too busy keeping Captain from imitating the roan’s pernicious tactics in the matter of shying at dead leaves to wonder exactly what Montana Marie was driving at so earnestly.