“Oh, all right, then, I’ll have to remember.” He stuck his hand in his pocket and extracted something which he began to wind around his finger.
“What’s that, old chap? String, eh?”
“A ’lastic band—to remember me about one o’clock. I hate having to remember,” he added impatiently.
“Hey day!” exclaimed Mrs. Pelham. “What sort of a boy would you be if you couldn’t remember?”
“All right, Aunt Augusta, but I hate it all the same.”
“He’ll remember,” said the Colonel. “He feels he’s on his honour.”
“Yes, he’ll remember. He’s a reliable little beggar.”
In a surprisingly short time the lad appeared on his pony, a beautiful pinto, bred from an Arabian sire out of an Indian pony, a strain of which his father was inordinately proud and in the breeding of which he had been unusually successful. The boy went flashing past the window, riding cowboy fashion, straight leg and with lines held loosely in his left hand, his cap high in his right, making right for the bars at the end of the drive.
“What the—— By Jove, he’s done it! Must be quite four feet.”
With never a halt the pony had taken the bars in his stride, and was off down the road, head down and at racing speed.