"But suppose it was Alice? Nonsense!" Jimmie argued contrarily. "He'd think it was the name of the oats. Just as if you said Bran, Bran! or Force, Force! or Shredded—"
"Now Jimmie, please stop. And be serious and think. You know we've got to call him something. Why just think! If anyone should stop us and ask us what was our horse's name. And we'd have to say that we didn't know. And then they'd tell somebody else. And somebody else would stop us and ask us. And then we'd be stopped and suspected and arrested and maybe put in a jail somewhere."
"I wouldn't," said Jimmie basely. "I didn't steal the horse."
He stooped quickly as though he expected something to be thrown at his head. But as his eye caught something on the collar he straightened up exultantly.
"It's all right!" he exclaimed eagerly. "We're safe! Here's his name on the collar."
"Oh, on his collar! I didn't know they did that for horses. Let me see."
"There it is, plain as his nose."
"Donahue," Augusta read. "But that isn't his name. That's his father's name—I mean, Mary's father's name—I mean, his owner's name."
"No," said Jimmie gravely. "I'm afraid you don't understand at all. You see, gypsies are that way. The oldest horse—You will admit that this is the oldest horse—the oldest horse is always called by the family name. You understand, it's just like in England. You know they never think of calling the son and heir by any boy's name. He is not Billie or Teddy or anything like that. He's simply called by the name of the house. He's Kingsmead, or Duncastle, or Ravenwood—So strong, you know, and effective."
"So," he waved his hand by way of introduction, "we have with us, 'Donahue.'"