Polly stood where Barker had left her, white and tense. Jim came toward her from the direction of the wagons. He glanced at her uneasily. “What's he been a-sayin' ter you?”
“He says I can't ride any more.” Her lips closed tightly. She stared straight ahead of her. “He says I was no good to the people that took me in, and I'm no use here.”
“It's not so!” thundered Jim.
“No; it's not!” she cried. “I'll show him, Jim! I'll show him—to-morrow!” She turned toward the dressing tent; Jim caught her firmly by the wrist.
“Wait, Poll! You ain't ever goin' into the ring a-feelin' THAT WAY.” Her eyes met his, defiantly.
“What's the difference? What's the difference?” She wrenched her wrist quickly from him, and ran into the dressing tent laughing hysterically.
“And I brung her back to it,” mumbled Jim as he turned to give orders to the property men.
Most of the “first-half props” were loaded, and some of the men were asleep under the wagons. The lot was clear. Suddenly he felt some one approaching from the back of the enclosure. He turned and found himself face to face with the stern, solitary figure of the pastor, wrapped in his long, black cloak. The moonlight slipped through a rift in the clouds, and fell in a circle around them.
“What made you come here?” was all Jim said.
“I heard that Miss Polly didn't ride to-day. I was afraid she might be ill.”