“Mike thinks Lauzanne is a bad horse,” the girl said, changing the subject, “but he'll win a big race this coming season. You just keep your eye on Lauzanne. Here's your carrot, old chap,” she said, stroking the horse's neck, “and we must go if we're to have that drive. Will you hitch the gray to the buggy for us, Mike?” she asked of Gaynor, as they came out of the stable, “we'll wait here.”
As Mike started off there came to their ears a sound of turmoil from Diablo's box; impatient kicks against the boards from the horse, and smothered imprecations from the boy.
“Hear that fiend!” the girl exclaimed, and there was wrath in her voice.
“He does seem a bad horse,” concurred Mortimer.
“I didn't mean Diablo; it's the boy. It's all his evil doing. Oh, I've only one glove,” she exclaimed. “I know where it is, though; that mischievous rascal, Lauzanne, nibbled it from the front of my jacket; I saw him do it, but forgot to pick it up.”
“Allow me, Miss Porter; I'll get it for you.”
“No; please don't!” with emphasis. As he started back, she laid a detaining hand on his arm. “I'd much prefer to go myself; Lauzanne distrusts strangers and might make trouble.”
As the girl entered the stable, Mortimer sauntered on in the direction Mike had gone.
Allis opened the door of Lauzanne's stall, passed in, and searched in the straw for the lost glove.