When Apache was sent to Leslie Manor he was such a contrast to the other horses that Jefferson at first looked askance at him, but Apache was a wise little beast. As a preliminary move he gently nozzled Jefferson, then by way of showing him that he was not to be taken too seriously, he flew up into the air, executed a wild fling and descended upon the exact spot from which he had risen, which exhibition so tickled Jefferson that he grinned broadly and announced to his underlings:
“Dat’s some hawse! Yo’ hyar me! Befo’ he’s done been in dis hyre stable a week he gwine ter be eatin’ outer ma hand,” and Apache verified the statement by becoming Jefferson’s abject slave before four days had passed, and Beverly basked in reflected glory, for was she not Apache’s “Yo’ng Mist’ess?”
“Kyant tech dat chile nothin’ ’bout ridin’”, was Jefferson’s fiat when he saw Beverly astride her little mouse-colored and white mount. “She paht ob dat hawse!”
There had already been several riding lessons since school opened, and each time Jefferson’s delight in his newest charges increased. Born and brought up with the race, Beverly knew how to handle the negroes, and Jefferson as promptly became her slave as Apache had become his.
Now the prescribed route for these riding excursions was within a five-mile radius of the school. “No further,” said Miss Woodhull. Those bounds seemed safe from encroachment upon the part of the Kilton Hall students, even had their Wednesday and Saturday mornings and afternoons not been entirely given over to athletics, thus precluding excursions upon horseback.
As a rule Jefferson took out eight or ten girls, but this particular Wednesday afternoon several had obtained permission to go to town with Mrs. Bonnell to do some shopping, have some photographs taken, see the dentists and what not, so the riders were reduced to Sally, Aileen, Petty Gaylord, Hope MacLeod, a senior, and Beverly. All were well mounted and each was looking her best in her trim habit.
It was customary for the party to stop at the porte cochere to be inspected by Miss Woodhull, but on this particular afternoon Miss Woodhull was absent at a social function in the neighborhood and the duty devolved upon Miss Stetson, the teacher of mathematics, a strong-minded lady with very pronounced views. She dressed as nearly like a man as was compatible with law and decency, wore her hair short, and affected a masculine stride. She came from Miss Woodhull’s state.
Jefferson drew up his cavalcade of five and awaited the appearance of Miss Stetson whom he despised with all your true negro’s power to despise “white folks what doesn’t know dey is white.” Miss Stetson insisted upon calling him Mr. Jefferson, affirming that “the race never could be self-respecting or, indeed, wholly emancipated, until treated as the equals of the white race.”
She now strode out upon the piazza, cast a critical eye upon the horses, nodded and said:
“Very fit. Very fit. Quite in order. You are to be commended Mr. Jefferson, but er—isn’t there something a little peculiar in the appearance of your horses’ er—er—headgear? Their eyes seem to be exposed more than usual; and look somewhat bare, so to speak. Can it be possible that you have forgotten something?”