“But how did you get Baltie and, greater marvel, how did you bring him all this way home?” persisted Constance, bound to get to the bottom of facts.
“I went into the box-stall—it’s close to the door you know—and got him and led him here.”
“But where was Mike, and what was he doing all that time to let you do such a thing?”
“O, he went poking off down the stable and didn’t pay any attention to me. It wouldn’t have made any difference if he had; I had gone there to rescue Baltie and save him from being shot, and I didn’t mean to come away without doing it. The two weeks were up to-day and he was there. If any one had been found to take him he wouldn’t have been there yet, would he? So that settled it, and I wasn’t going to take any chances. If I’d let him stay one day longer they might have shot him. If I could have found Mr. Pringle I’d have told him, but I couldn’t, and I didn’t dare to wait. I left my bank money, almost five dollars, to pay for this week’s board—Mr. Stuyvesant said it would be enough—and a little note to tell him it was for Baltie; I wrote it on a piece of paper in his office, and then I came home as fast as Baltie could walk, and here we are.”
Jean had talked very rapidly and Constance was too dumfounded for the time being, to interrupt the flow of words. Presently however, she recovered her speech and, resting one hand on Baltie’s withers and the other on Jean’s shoulder, asked resignedly:
“And now that you’ve got him, may I ask what in this world you propose to do with him?”
“Take him out to the stable of course and take care of him as long as he lives,” was the uncontrovertible reply.
“Mother will never let you do such a thing, Jean, and he must be taken back to Pringle’s at once,” said Constance, with more emphasis than usually entered her speech toward this mad-cap little sister.
“I won’t! I won’t! I won’t let him go back!” broke out Jean, a storm of sobs ending the protest and bringing Mammy upon the scene hot-foot, for Mammy’s ears were keen for notes of woe from her baby.
“What’s de matter, honey? What done happen ter yo’?” she cried as she came hurrying across the little porch upon which the dining-room opened. “Bress Gawd what yo’ got dere, chile? Huccum dat old horse here?”