“That child! Why how in the world did he obtain her family’s consent!” exclaimed a neighbor.
“No matter how; there she is.”
“But, have confidence, sir. She’s only a girl. She cannot have the wisdom and skill—”
“Cannot she? Maybe you haven’t heard about her; though, wasn’t it yourself expatiating upon her wonderful riding over our country-roads on her piebald mount? Why, man alive, the child’s a witch! So they claim; and—Jupiter! If they haven’t imported a regular ‘Wild Westerner’ besides! Well, I might as well give it up. Mordaunt’s beaten.”
Kentucky Bob was moving about Trixie as she stood waiting, examining every strap and buckle of the light harness she wore, testing its strength and that of the skeleton-like vehicle in which he had placed his beloved “Little Lady of the Horse.” His gaunt face was grave and anxious. He did not like this experimenting with untried animals, and at such a stake. Still, he knew the mettle of the driver if not the steed, and his superstitious faith in Steenie’s ability to succeed everywhere and in everything made his words cheerful, if not his heart wholly so.
“I come jest in time, didn’t I, Little Un? An’ don’t you get excited an’ ferget. You take the outside. Thar ain’t no legs in this show ’cept Trixie’s an’ that Mordaunt’s thar. Them two other critters’ll drop out in no time; then you jest keep a steady head—an’ hand—an’ the outside! Don’t you ferget it. I ain’t a goin’ to have ye crowded up ag’in no railin’ an’ so caught an’ beat—mebbe hurt. Keep to the outside, though they be so p’lite as ter offer ye the inside show. Steady, is the word. Go it slow—warm her up—put on steam—get in ahead. Thar ye go! Californy to win!”
But not so easily. It was a contest hardly, barely won. Yet it was won—and honestly; and, the driving over, Steenie was swung to the ground once more by her attentive Bob, who was far more pleased and proud than she.
“Ye did it, Little Un! Ye did it! Though, o’ course, I didn’t expect nothin’ else o’ my ‘Mascot’!”
But the child’s face was downcast. The cheers and plaudits which followed her as she went into the waiting-room were almost unheard and quite unnoticed, and she bounded toward Judge Courtenay with actual tears of vexation in her blue eyes. “Oh, I’m so sorry! You’ll never have any faith in me again, will you?”
“Why, my dear little girl! You’ve won! Didn’t you know that you had won?” cried the master of Rookwood, in high delight.