Part 12 (1/2)

Over little Paulina Pry's face fell a shadow, and for a moment the big eyes grew suspiciously bright. Then wounded pride caused them to flash as their owner whispered to herself, ”She _might_ have told me the truth.”

Then the kitchen door was shut, locked from the outside, and Mammy departed.

Jean got down from her perch and stood for a few moments in the middle of the pantry floor in deep meditation. Then raising her head with a determined little nod she said under her breath, ”_I'll_ show 'em.”

To hurry out to the hall closet where her everyday hat, coat and gloves were kept, took but a moment. In another she had put them on, and was on her way to the stable. To harness Baltie was somewhat of an undertaking, but by the aid of a box which raised her to the necessary height this was done, the old horse nickering softly and rubbing his head against her as she proceeded.

”Yes Baltie, dear. _You_ and _I_ have a secret now and _don't_ you _tell_ it. If _they_ think they are so smart, _we'll_ show them that _we_ can do something too.”

At length the harnessing was done, and slipping back to the house Jean went into the pantry, lifted up the box so plainly labeled ”Ladies'

Suits” and sped away to the stable where she placed it carefully upon the bottom of the phaeton, tucking the carriage rug around and about it in such a manner that even the liveliest suspicion would have nothing to feed upon.

Then opening the double doors she led Baltie through them, and out of the driveway to the side street on which it opened, and which could not be seen from the front of the house where the young lady knew her mother and sister to be at this critical moment. Only a second more was needed to run back and close the stable doors and the gates, and all tracks were covered.

In that immediate vicinity the queer turnout was well-known by this time, so no curiosity was aroused by its appearance.

As usual, Jean had not paused to mature her plans. Their inception was enough for the time being; details could follow later.

Plod, plod, fell Baltie's hoofs upon the macadamized street as Jean guided him slowly along. The day was cold, but clear and crisp, with just a hint of wind or snow from the mare's tails overhead in the blue.

Jean had no very clear idea of what her next step would be, and was rather trusting to fate to show her. Perhaps Baltie had a better one than his driver, or perhaps it was sense of direction and force of habit which was heading him toward South Riveredge; Baltie's intelligence did not appear to wane with his years. At all events, he was going his usual route when Jean spied Mammy far ahead and in a trice fate had stepped in to give things a twist. To pull Baltie around and guide him into a street which led to East instead of South Riveredge was the work of a second. Jean thought she could go back by another street which led diagonally into South Riveredge but when she reached it she found it closed for repairs. Turning around involved more or less danger and she had a thought for that which lay at her feet. So on she went, hoping to get into South Riveredge sooner or later.

Like many suburban towns, Riveredge had certain sections which were given over to the poorer element, and in such sections could always be found enough idle, mischievous youngsters to make things interesting for other people, particularly on Sat.u.r.days when they were released from the restraint of school.

Jean had proceeded well along upon her way when she was spied by two or three urchins upon whose hands time was hanging rather heavily, and to whom the novel sight of a handsome, neatly-clad child, perched in a phaeton which might have been designed for Noah, and driving a blind horse, was a vision of joy.

”Hi, Billy, get on ter de swell rig,” bawled one worthy son of McKim's Hollow.

”Gee! Aint he a stunner! Say, where did yer git him?” yelled Billy, prompt to take up the ball, and give it a toss.

”Mebbe he's de ghost av yer granfather's trotter,” was the next salute.

”Hi, what's his best time. Forty hours fer de mile?” asked a larger lad, hanging on to the back of the phaeton and winding his heels into the springs.

”Get down! Go away!” commanded Jean.

”Couldn't,” politely replied her pa.s.senger.

”Say yer oughter have a white hawse wid all dat red hair,” yelled a new addition to the number already swarming after her.

”Git a move on,” was the next cry, as a youth armed with a long stick joined the crowd. Things were growing decidedly uncomfortable for Jean whose cheeks were blazing, and whose eyes were flas.h.i.+ng ominously.

Just then one urchin made a grab for the whip but she was too quick for him, and once having it in her hand was tempted to lay about vigorously. As though divining her thoughts, the smaller boys drew off but he of the stick scorned such an adversary, although discretion warned him not to lay it upon her. The old horse, however, was not so guarded by law and the stick descended upon his flanks with all the strength of the young rowdy's arms. He would better have struck Jean!

Never since coming to live in his present home had Baltie felt a blow, but during all those four months had been petted, loved and cared for in a manner to make him forget former trials, and in spite of his age, renew his strength and spirits. True, he was never urged to do more than jog, jog, jog along, but under the spur of this indignity some of his old fire sprung up and with a wild snort of resentment he plunged forward. As he did so, down came the whip across his a.s.sailant's head, for Jean had forgotten all else in her wrath; she began to lay about her with vigor, and the battle was on in earnest.

Perhaps John Gilpin cut a wilder dash yet it is doubtful.

CHAPTER XIII