“He began to think and search—and find. My old Dad!”
Across the fragment of a flower clock the girl’s hand stole into the boy’s.
He covered it with his other palm—held the finger tips for a moment against his lips—then leaped to his feet, to search anew.
CHAPTER XXIV
The Race
“If it weren’t for the trees, we ought to be able to see them now. But—merciful hop toads! this trail is crooked enough to break a snake’s back, isn’t it?”
Treff Graham grasped it, ducking low to avoid the tall bushes and small trees that almost swept him off his plunging horse as he followed Pemrose down the shoulder of Little Sister mountain.
The girl had started off recklessly at a fast trot—a chameleon-like trot that was now a slip now a wild plunge—Revelation feeling with his fore feet for a footing—and now a coasting gait in which he slid upon his haunches; then the pace slackened, to become again the slip and slide and plunge in which girl and horse, flashing amid the bright fall foliage, turned all sorts of colors in the early light.
“Are you—are you coming?” she shouted impatiently over her shoulder.
“Sure—thing! As fast as I can come!” bellowed the boy; and then he swung his whip and whooped, as the trail grew for a moment easier.
“Camp Fire Girls on top,” he yelled. “Look—there!”