For the girl rider had started Revelation off at such a pace that he stepped upon a rolling stone and almost slipped upon his haunches with it, down the pebbly trail—sparks flying out, a galaxy, from his hindfeet.
“Hold his head up. Try-y to hold his head up. Bah! going down, Revelation will leave Cartoon in the dust.” The boy rider ground his teeth.
“I’ll change with you, if you like!”
“Do you think I’m such a cad—such a bounder?”
But the passionate sincerity of the offer did more than anything else to convince Treff Graham, aviator, that this whole thing was more than a mere dream of the golden-rods.
Sparks flew in front of hoofs now—whole constellations of them—hind feet slid, Cartoon grunted stubbornly, the white star on his forehead moody.
“Yes, going up, old Roman Nose, you could hold your own, because of muscle; going down you’re not ‘in it’ with Revelation—not so nimble. But, heavens! if that girl doesn’t ‘come a cropper’ before—the—bottom.”
Treffrey, stroking his horse’s throbbing neck, grunted, too, appalled; for his girl-leader, her hand on her saddle, was whirling round on him again and the blue triumph of her eyes in the chalky whiteness of her face made him feel queer.
“Do you realize,” she cried—and rose in her stirrups, “do you realize that if Una sent out that message—and I know she did—she isn’t dropping through, as you said she would, she’s coming through?”
“By the powers o’ pluck! It begins to look as if she was crashing through.” The boy-aviator rose, too, high in his saddle—and in the moisture of his eye, as its humorous brown speck flashed, there was all the world of difference that yawned for him between helplessly dropping through and crashing through an enemy, colors flying—the difference between cripple and soldier, glory and defeat.