Turning at Dorry's call, he saw that something was the matter. Dood limped painfully for a few steps, then stopped.
"He's hurt his foot," cried Dorry. "It wasn't a stumble; he tripped. Poor Dood!" she added, as the pony's head turned pitifully toward her, "you must go on now."
Dood tried, but it was slow work. He grew lamer at every step. Don, noticing that one of the pony's fore-shoes was loose, dismounted and tried to take it off, but it would not come. A turn in the road disclosed Vanbogen's not far away. By this time, slanting lines of rain showed against the trees.
"It's going to storm in earnest, Dot; you'll get soaking wet!" said Don.
"Not I," chirped Dorry. "My riding-habit is water-proof. You'll be the wet one. Hurry ahead, Don. Dood and I will be there as soon as we can. I do hope he isn't hurt seriously. Oh, Don, do hurry!"
But Don wouldn't and Dood couldn't. If the shower had not paused to take breath before making its grand dash, they certainly would have been drenched.
As it was, they hardly had dismounted at the inn before the rain came down in torrents.
"Dear me!" said Dorry, shaking her riding-skirt, as she sprang into the bare hall, "our saddles will get soaked!" But a negro, in a blue-checked jacket, already was leading the steeds to shelter.
It was a very shabby house at the best of times, but it was particularly dreary now. Dorry was sure she never before had seen anything so dismal as the damp little parlor into which Donald escorted her. The closed blinds, the mouldy, bumpy sofa, the faded-green table-cover, the stained matting, the low-spirited rocking-chair with one arm broken off, and the cracked, dingy wall-paper oppressed her strangely.
"What a horrid place!" she exclaimed in an awe-struck whisper to Don, as a flash of lightning shone through the blinds. "Let us go!"