“Bless us and keep us!” cried Constance Berrington, covering her small ears with her small hands, “is that an Indian war-whoop, that once used to resound in this wilderness?’
“No, it’s the acme of civilisation; merely a college yell. If any of your people are graduates of Chicago University they’ll recognise it.”
The people who were not graduates of anything, except the college of hard labour, hurried to meet them with anxious faces.
“No, I am not in the least hurt,” said Constance Berrington quite composedly. “I was merely compelled to dismount more rapidly than I usually do. Did the horse get home all right?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Oh, then everything is as it should be. Luckily this gentleman was near by, and I came to no harm. Fletcher!”
The dejected, crestfallen man came slowly to the front, while she advanced a few rapid steps toward him, gave him some instructions in an undertone, and the search-party left under his leadership for the house, Steele and the girl following them at their leisure.
“How true it is that fine feathers make fine birds!” said John. “I should never have recognised Fletcher, whom I once took to be the finest specimen of our race.”
“It’s a poor rule that doesn’t work both ways,” laughed the girl. “Did you notice that Fletcher failed to recognise you?”
“Oh, I will go back and get that other suit!” cried John, coming to a standstill. “Don’t wait dinner for me.”