“Woo—oo—oo—oo!” howled Hippy, trying to imitate an Indian war whoop, but failing miserably.
Not to be outdone by Grace Harlowe, the lieutenant too spun his sombrero into the air, but instead of spinning it on its rim he spun it flat.
The sombrero floated gracefully off in the direction of Roosevelt Lake, sinking lower and lower into the shadows of the chasm hundreds of feet below them, until it finally disappeared altogether.
“My hat! My hat!” howled Hippy.
The Overland Riders were almost hysterical with laughter when they brought their ponies down to a quick stop, after Grace, in her merriment, had nearly ridden down Ike Fairweather. Ike had only saved himself from disaster by hastily throwing himself into the roadside ditch.
Nora Wingate was laughing so much that she forgot to scold her husband, and Hippy kept them laughing for as much longer as possible, so that Nora might not remember to give him the good-natured grilling that he knew he deserved.
It came, however, when Ike teased him about letting a woman outdo him in riding and hat tossing.
“You wouldn’t imagine that my husband ever was a bird of the air, flying above the clouds as gracefully as a wild duck on its way to a new home in the sunny south. Now would you, Mr. Fairweather?”
“Well, seein’ as you have put the question up to me pintedly, I don’t reckon as I would,” was Ike’s conclusion, after a brief stroking of his whiskers.
There followed another merry laugh at Hippy’s expense, then the outfit dismounted and led their ponies to the tethering ground that had been selected for the purpose.