The race referred to was a proposed contest for supremacy to be held at the “private track” of Rookwood, between the Courtenay horses and those of neighboring county magnates. As has been said before, that part of the state was famous for its fine stock; and these millionnaire owners of world-renowned animals spared no expense in the indulgence of their equine “hobby,” or the furtherance of their ambition to lead in the matter of speed and purity of breed.
Steenie had been deeply interested in the preparations, and her heart beat in sympathy with a distress she had now learned was connected with the day’s event.
“Pshaw! It’s too bad! Too contemptibly pitiful and mean! I can’t get the other jockey, either!” exclaimed the Judge, thrusting the yellow missive behind him, and striding up and down the school-room porch.
Steenie waited but a moment, then she stole to his side, slipped her warm little hand into his great palm, and made an absurd attempt with her own shorter limbs to equal the pace of her perplexed friend.
“Hm-m. You good little thing! But even your encouragement can’t help me now.”
“Would you just as lief tell me what it is? Maybe I could help, maybe. I’m awful anxious to, ’cause, ’cause—you’re so good to me an’ every single body. Maybe I can.”
“I wish you could! If you were a boy! Hm-m. No use. Yet it is so trying to be balked by a little thing like that!”
“Like what, sir?”
“Oh, you persistent little monkey! There—you know I mean that for a compliment! Come then, sit you down and hear an old simpleton’s trouble, then laugh at him as you laugh at all annoyance.”
“But not folks. Dear Judge Courtenay, I don’t mean to laugh at folks.”