“You walked over, Mr. Kipley, I assume,” he said, mischievously.
“I didn’t try to kill a horse ’n’ get my neck broke,” responded Mr. Kipley, defensively.
“You picked up thet baby nice, though,” he added, with the air of a man willing to be just.
John Carrington looked at him with an air of sudden inquiry.
“It was lucky,” said the lad, languidly; and he lounged over to the open window, as though the subject was finished.
“I’m goin’ to,” said Mr. Kipley, impatiently, to the growing insistence of John Carrington’s look.
He objected to being hurried in the narration of a story which he rejoiced was his to tell.
“When he,” he began, jerking his head in the lad’s direction, “’lected to ride the Colonel home, he threw that red-backed garmint”—no mere black-and-white could reproduce the patronage of Mr. Kipley’s tone—“’cross the saddle in front of him. ’N’ the Colonel, not being used to the fashions in Paris, bolted. They went up the road’s though they was goin’ to glory, ’n’ didn’t have but one chance to ketch the limited. ’N’ I threw his grip in the wagon ’n’ started after ’em.
“It was good ridin’,” said Mr. Kipley, approvingly, “’n’ everybody thet could turned out to see it. It was interestin’ and free.
“Thet curve by Trevanion’s cottage is a mean place,” Mr. Kipley continued, reflectively. “I’ve run the team into several things there myself, includin’ a dog fight, which c’ncluded about the time we run over the principal fighter’s tail.” He switched himself back on the main track. “Thet baby of Trevanion’s was tryin’ to ketch a hen just as the exhibition come along.”