"So you see, Ted, dad and I know you are all right,—only mother and the rest rather stick at your not presenting yourself properly. It will take a lot of grandfather to get around that!"—and she went off again into peals of laughter.
"Helen, you don't believe—"
She cut me off. "Ted. I make friends with whom I please, and no explanations are necessary, unless I ask for them."
"But there wasn't—"
"That will do, Teddy. You must turn back now," and she went on, leaving me with one last protest hanging in mid-air. I looked at my watch, as one always does in the street to cover embarrassment. It was quarter to six! By dashing up a side street and running after an electric car I arrived at the office exactly with the whistle.
Chapter Six
I GO FOR A RIDE ON SATAN
My precious riding clothes were delivered Saturday night, somewhat to my surprise. I tried them on at a private dress rehearsal before going to bed.
By eight in the morning I was under way to a certain livery and feed stable that had been recommended and found that no progress had yet been made with saddling my chosen horse—or even with the grooming of the angular-looking brute. A tip spurred the hostler's efforts, and finally Satan was as presentable as a horse possessing his peculiar anatomy could be. The beast was an underfed Western broncho somewhat past the first bloom of youth. His eye was not confiding, showing too much white; the manipulation of his ears confirmed the moroseness indicated by his eyes. The poor animal's bony frame was seared all over with hieroglyphic brands proclaiming service under the dynasties of many ranches; he was as interesting to study as the panels on an Egyptian tomb. I suspected that much of the important history of the Far West was engraved upon him. The question of riding, him, however, was a matter of Hobson's choice, for the other animals were fat ladies' cobs mainly used in harness.