“Ginger,” said Mrs. Featherstone, sniffing, “Ginger! I guess we’ll have to get another nickname for you. Very weak Lemon Extract ... Vanilla....”
The girl flung up her head and the black mane swung back over her shoulders, thick and shining. Her face was a little flushed. “I’m worrying about your riding to Slate’s, Aunt Fan. I’m positive it will be too much for you.”
“Well, I don’t say I’ll enjoy it,” Mrs. Featherstone conceded. “That isn’t the idea; I shall take it as I would take a dose of medicine.”
“But you can’t swallow it down with one brave gulp, Aunt Fan! You haven’t any idea what it will be like, hours and hours—and hours! Three days in the saddle, and one of the nights you’ll camp out and sleep on the ground—”
“I’m not going to sleep on the ground; the doctor’s loaning me his pneumatic-cushioned sleeping bag!” Then, as Ginger still shook her head, “I’ll tell you, dearie, it’s this way. I haven’t quite made up my mind about the doctor yet, but I’m making it up, and if I do—well, I must learn to like the sort of things he likes, mustn’t I?” She finished very sweetly, with a great deal of wistful earnestness in her blue eyes.
“Well, I wish I could follow you with an ambulance, that’s all,” said her niece, darkly.
The doctor was much surprised and a little hurt to find that Ginger was going to stay in camp and not make the ride with them, but she was very logical about it. She knew his well-known preference for taking only a small party; more than six made a cumbersome excursion, he held—they were only as fast as the slowest horse in the string, and there was constant dismounting for cinching and saddle-setting, and endless delays; there would be seven in this party without her. She pointed out, gently, that riding wasn’t after all such a treat, such a new experience to her as it was to Aunt Fan, and the very blond girl.
They got off at nine on a blue-and-gold morning and Ginger was very helpful and attentive to her aunt, who was large and impressive upon old Sam in her borrowed riding things. Some one among the women had produced an old-fashioned divided skirt of corduroy and her legs were wound with spiral puttees of khaki. She was not ill-pleased with herself. “Of course, I’m stout,” she whispered to Ginger, “but I do taper. I have the wrists and ankles of a woman half my weight. This isn’t a very snappy outfit, is it? But who knows—if I keep up this sort of thing, by next summer I may be able to ride in pants and get away with it!”
The doctor rode up to them. “Won’t change your mind, Ginger, even if I let you ride Ted?”