“I am not a 'dead one,'” she answered, excitedly. “I'm the best rider you've had since mother died. You've said so yourself.”
“That was afore yer got in with them church cranks. You talk about yer mother! Why, she'd be ashamed ter own yer.”
“She wouldn't,” cried Polly. Her eyes were flashing, her face was scarlet. The pride of hundreds of years of ancestry was quivering with indignation. “I can ride as well as I EVER could, and I'll do it, too. I'll do it to-morrow.”
“To-morrow?” echoed Barker. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that I CAN'T go into that ring TO-NIGHT,” she declared, “and I won't.”
She was desperate now, and trading upon a strength beyond her own.
He looked at her with momentary indecision. She WAS a good rider—the best since her mother, as he had often told her. He could see this meant an issue. He felt she would be on her mettle to-morrow, as far as her work was concerned, if he left her alone to-night.
“All right,” he said, sullenly. “Yer can stay off to-night. I got the crowd in there, anyway, and I got their money. I'll let Eloise do a turn on Barbarian, but TO-MORROW you'd better show me your old act.”
“I'll show you!” she cried. “I'll show you!”
“Well, see that you do.” He crossed into the ring.