"I can't stand much more of their pestering," said Mr. Pottle darkly.
"Ssssh," said his wife. "The Paul Revere scene is going to start."
In the wings, Wendell Gulick, Junior, was making ready to mount his charger. The charger, as he had specified, was white, peculiarly white, for it had been found necessary at the last moment to conceal some harness stains by powdering her liberally with crushed lilac talcum. Agnes looked resentful but resigned. Mr. Gulick, Junior, was a plump young man, with nose-glasses, and satisfied lips, who had the distinction of being the only person in Granville who had ever ridden to hounds. He cultivated a horsey atmosphere, wore a riding crop pin in his tie, and was admittedly the local authority on things equine. He looked most formidable in hip-high leathern boots, a continental garb, and a powdered wig. It was regretable that the steed did not measure up to her rider. Save for being approximately white, Agnes had little to recommend her for the rôle. She had one of those long, sad, philosophic faces, and she appeared to be considerably taller in the hips than in the shoulders. She had a habit of looking back over her shoulder with a surprised expression, as if she missed her milk wagon.
Encouraged by a slap on the flank from a stage-hand, Agnes advanced to the center of the stage at a brisk, business-like trot, and there stopped, and nodded to the audience.
"Whoa, Agnes," shouted some bad little boy in the gallery.
Young Mr. Gulick, in the rôle of Paul Revere, affected to pat his mount's head, and in a voice of thunder, roared:
"Gallant stallion, swift and noble,"
Agnes reached out a long neck and nibbled at the scenery.
"Lent me by my good friend, Gulick,"
Agnes looked over her shoulder and smiled at her rider.