“Thank you, thank you,” she said. “What possessed you, Hector? Oh, there’s something the matter with the darling!”
At that Thunderbolt turned his head. “Overfeeding,” he snickered. The hide-bound spavin!
“I think,” Mr. England was saying, “that you’d better not ride to the stable. Martin will drive you home, and I’ll take charge of this chap. He’s still excited.”
(I was only out of temper with Thunderbolt.)
But poor Missy! She lowered the nigh stirrup quick as a wink. “No, no, it really isn’t necessary,” she said; “Really it isn’t. I wouldn’t for the world let Hector think he’d scared me. It would spoil him. I must ride him right away, and conquer him.” And she mounted.
Martin had turned the trap by now, for other vehicles were passing. But Mr. England did not get up.
“You’re right, of course,” he answered. “If he thinks he beat you out, he’ll only bully you every chance he gets after this. But still I must insist on taking you to the stable. We’ll go slowly, and you put his nose close behind the rumble and keep it there.”
I felt the reins tremble dreadfully. It wasn’t fear, either. Then Missy bent over, speaking low.
“Mr. England,” she said earnestly, “not Martin. Won’t you send him home with Thunderbolt? Please.”
Mr. England saw that she was troubled about something and he gave her her head. “Martin,” he called to the groom, “you take the trap in. And attend to that thong on the whiffletree—it doesn’t hold the trace.”