“Amarilla,” I said softly.
Oh what a jump she gave. “Beauty,” she said, “why, Beauty, is that you?”
Beauty had been my name in Boston, given me by a too fond mistress who really thought me beautiful.
“Tell me quick,” I said, “what’s the matter with you?”
“I didn’t do my tricks right,” she said, “and the trainer beat me, and I was too frightened to go on the stage.”
“Then you’re not happy with him.”
“Happy, Beauty—if you knew,” and she began, to moan and cry softly.
There was blood on her pretty coat, and I said sharply, “Brace up, now, and get out of this. Follow me, I’ll lead you to a good home.”
“I’m afraid,” she said shrinking back. “I never had much spirit, and all I had has been whipped out of me. I don’t believe I could run a block.”