Oh, it was glorious! Five miles? What were five miles to the little beastie which had many a time pounded off twenty-five without turning a hair? Or to Beverly who had often ridden fifty in one day with Uncle Athol and her brother? Just a breather. And when there swept through the gateway of Kilton Hall a most exalted, hatless, rosy-cheeked, dancing-eyed lassie mounted upon a most hilarious steed, the gate-keeper came within an ace of having apoplexy, for she was a portly old body.
But Beverly did not pause for explanations. Her objective point was the athletic field at the rear of the building and her appearance upon it might have been regarded in the light of a distinct sensation. It would never do to forsake too promptly the role of being run away with. There were coaches and referees upon tennis court, cinder path and football field, and boys galore, in every sort of athletic garb, performing every sort of athletic stunt.
When Beverly set out to do anything she rarely omitted any detail to make it as near perfect as possible. As she tore across the lawn which led to the field her sharp eyes discovered Athol upon one of the tennis courts and closer at hand a lot of other boys sprinting, gracefully or otherwise, around the cinder path, taking hurdles placed about a hundred feet apart.
Now, if there was one thing in this world upon which Apache and his young mistress agreed more entirely than another, it was the pure delight of skimming over a fence. A five-footer was a mere trifle. The three-foot hurdles upon the cinder path a big joke. The tennis nets? Pouf!
If Beverly really was tugging upon Apache’s bridle he was not permitting anything so trivial as a girl’s strength to bother him, and her knees told him quite a different story as he swept upon the cinder path, took two hurdles like a deer and was off over the tennis courts and over a net before the astonished players could draw a full breath.
“It’s a runaway!” cried Mr. Cushman, who had charge of the football coaching, to be echoed by the tall quarter back in football togs, as both broke away in pursuit, the whole field quickly taking the alarm also. But that tennis court held one individual whose wits worked as quickly as the star performer’s, and there and then shrilled across it a high-pitched, peculiar whistle which they both knew mighty well, and the four-legged one obeyed instanter by wheeling so suddenly that he put a very realistic climax upon the scene by nearly unseating the two-legged one, as he tore pell mell for the whistler and came to a sudden halt in front of him, to the increased astonishment of the general audience.
“Gee whiz, Bev! What’s let loose?” cried Athol, trying to respond to Apache’s nozzling, whinnying demonstrations of delight and reach his sister’s extended hands at the same time, while Archie did his record-breaking sprint across the gridiron, and the whole field came boiling toward them.
“I have. Don’t you see I’ve been run away with? It’s lucky Apache turned in here,” answered Beverly, with remarkable calmness for one so lately escaped from disaster or sudden death, as she brushed back her flying locks, for—well—reasons.
“Run away nothing! You run away with! Piffle. Ah, cut it out Apache! I know you’re ready to throw a fit at seeing me, but keep bottled up for a minute, won’t you?” he ended as Apache lay hold of his tennis shirt and tried to jerk him into attention. But he gave the bony little head a good-natured mauling nevertheless, as Archie rushing up exclaimed: