"You!" said Tom; "why, the colt would leave that bay mare out of sight before you could say Jack Robinson."
"Oh, I don't expect to beat. Of course that's out of the question. But I should like the run; where's the goal, Francis?"
"That turn in the road where the tall fir-tree is, with those dead limbs; you see?"
"Yes. We'll trot, of course. All ready."
"Be very careful, Gypsy," called her father, nervously; "I'm really almost afraid to have you go. You might come to the precipice sooner, than you expect, and then the horse may shy."
"I'll be careful father; come, Nelly, gently—whe-ee!"
Suddenly reflecting that it was not supposed to be lady-like to whistle, Gypsy drew her lips into a demure pucker, touched Nelly with the tassel of her whip, and flew away up the hill on a brisk trot. Mr. Francis condescendingly checked the full speed of the colt, and they rode on pretty nearly side by side.
"I'm afraid, in justice to my horse, I must really come in first," began Mr. Francis, loosening his rein as they neared the fir-tree.
"Oh, of course," said Gypsy, with a twinkle in her eyes; "I didn't undertake to beat."
Now Nelly had a trick with which Gypsy was perfectly familiar, of breaking into a run at an instant's notice, if she were pinched in a certain spot on her neck. Suddenly, while the colt was springing on in his fleet trot, and Mr. Francis supposed Gypsy was a full eight feet behind, he was utterly confounded to see her flying past him on a bounding gallop, her hair tossing in the wind, her cheeks scarlet, her eyes triumphant.