“We’ll send the Chink back,” said Scott, persuasively, “and we’ll stay all night with Herrick. We’ll make him play for you,” he added, as Polly smiled in spite of herself. “Will you go?”
“She must,” said Hard. “It’s her last chance to see the country.” And so the matter was settled.
“That Chink’ll ride the whole twenty miles on a dead run—he’ll be here to dinner,” said Matt. “Ever see a Chinaman ride?”
“He’ll ride his own horse, then,” replied Scott, as he left the room. “Perhaps we’ll bring Herrick back with us, Mrs. Van.”
“He won’t leave that piano of his,” prophesied Mrs. Van Zandt. “No more than a mother’d leave her baby when there was danger around.”
It was ten o’clock when the three riders started on their trip, Scott preserving a reasonably cheerful face, in spite of the fact that he hated late starts. It was a beautiful morning; the sky, blue and cloudless, the air fresh and invigorating with the crispness of early spring, the radiant clearness of the atmosphere making neighbors of the mountains, all combined to make a tonic which showed signs of going to Polly’s head. After all, there are few sensations like the starting out upon a horseback trip; the mare’s springy trot, the freshness of her own healthy body, even the feel of the bridle reins brought her joy.
“You look mighty happy,” commented Hard. “It must be pleasant to be twenty-three.”
Polly laughed. “It is,” she admitted. “But I’m going to be just as happy at forty-three. I’ve found the recipe.”
“Will you sell it to me? My next one happens to be my forty-second. I’ll be needing it soon.”
“I’ll make you a present of it. Stay out-of-doors and keep on doing things. Of course, I haven’t tried it for forty-three years, but I feel in my bones that it will work.”