Thunderbolt went trotting off. Mr. England turned back to Missy. “Hector seems a little quieter now,” he said.
Then I saw that Missy wasn’t going to let Mr. England come with her any more than she had Martin. “There isn’t any reason for your coming,” she said. “Hector’s like a lamb.”
For a second, I thought he hesitated. But I settled that. With a little squeal and a shake of my head, I reared—just a trifle.
Quick as a fly, Mr. England had my reins. “He isn’t over his tantrum yet, you see,” he said quietly, but very decidedly. “I can’t think of letting you take him in alone.”
Well, Missy protested. But he was firm. And we started for the entrance, with him at my bridle.
As soon as I saw he was really coming, I hung my head and went along like a case of chest-founder. When we reached the street, he took to the sidewalk, watching me every instant though, and watching poor Missy. She was hanging her head, too.
At a corner, Mr. England turned north, expecting us to follow. For that was the way to Hawley’s. Missy reined me up and called to him, and he came back.
I could see her face was dreadfully pale. But she was just as straight in her saddle as she could be. “Not that way, Mr. England,” she said.
He didn’t show the least surprise. (He is a thoroughbred, too.) “You lead,” he said; “I’ll follow.”
And so we went on—to the wagon-yard, Mr. England looking at the sidewalk, Missy looking straight ahead.