Mentally thanking the fashion which condoned it, she turned the trousers up at the bottom. “I'll use my scissors and needle on them to-night,” she said, ruthlessly. Thank goodness, the jockeys are all little chaps, and the racing clothes will fit better.
The coat was of summer wear, therefore somewhat close-fitting for Alan; but why did it hang so loosely on her? She was sure her brother was not so much bigger. A little thought given to this question of foreign apparel brought a possible solution. The undergarments she had tumbled about in her search were much heavier than her own. Her crusade had its side of comedy; she chuckled as, muttering, “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she reincarnated herself completely, so far as outward adornment was concerned. Then she examined herself critically in the glass. The mirror declared she was a passable counterfeit of her brother; all but the glorious crown of luxuriant hair. Perhaps she had better leave it as it was until she had met with the approval of Dixon—the terrible sacrifice might be for nothing. She wavered only for an instant—no half measure would do. “In for a penny, in for a pound.” The slightest weakness in carrying out her bold plan might cause it to fail.
Twice she took up a pair of scissors, and each time laid them down again, wondering if it were little short of a madcap freak; then, shrinking from the grinding hiss of the cutting blades, she clipped with feverish haste the hair that had been her pride. It was a difficult task, and but a rough job at best when finished, but the change in her appearance was marvelous; the metamorphosis, so successful, almost drowned the lingering regret. She drew a cap over her shorn head, packed her own garments and a few of her brother's in a large bag, buttoned her newmarket coat tight up to her throat, and once more surveyed herself in the glass. From head to foot she was ready. Ah, the truthful glass betrayed the weak point in her armor—the boots. In an instant she had exchanged them for a pair of Alan's. Now she was ready to pass her mother as Allis in her own long cloak, and appear before Dixon without it as a boy. That was her clever little scheme.
Before going up to her room she had asked that the stableman might be at the door with a buggy when she came down, to take her to the station. When she descended he was waiting.
“I'm taking some clothes back with me, mother,” she said. “Let Thomas bring the bag down, please.”
“You're getting dreadfully mannish in your appearance, daughter; it's that cap.”
“I have to wear something like this about in the open;” answered Allis.
“But for traveling, girl, it seems out of place. Let me put a hat on you. I declare I thought it was Alan when you came into the room.”
“I can't wait; this will do. I must be off to catch my train. Goodbye, mother; wish me good luck,” and she hurried out and took her seat in the buggy.