"Was it Dabney?"
"No, but Dabney was the boy that pushed him in for doing it, and then helped me up. Dab rubbed his face for him with snow till he cried."
"Just like him!" exclaimed Annie with emphasis. "I should think his friends here will miss him."
"Indeed they will," replied Jenny, and then she seemed disposed to be quiet for a while.
The party could not last forever, pleasant as it was, and by the time his duties as "host" were met, Dabney was tired enough to go to bed and sleep soundly. His arms were lame and sore from the strain the ponies had given them, and that may have been the reason why he dreamed half the night that he was driving runaway teams and crashing over rickety old bridges.
But why was it that every one of his dream-wagons, no matter who else was in it, seemed to have Jenny Walters and Annie Foster smiling at him from the back seat?
He rose later than usual next morning, and the house was all in its customary order by the time he got down-stairs.
Breakfast was ready also, and, by the time that was over, Dab's great new trunk was brought down-stairs by a couple of the farm-hands.
"It's an hour yet to train-time," said Ham Morris; "but we might as well get ready. We must be on hand in time."
What a long hour that was, and not even a chance given for Dab to run down and take a good-bye look at the "Swallow!"