"Won't you come?" he persisted.

Sally sighed. "No, I thank you, Eugene. I will stay until I see Uncle John."

Bowing, Eugene Spencer drove off, leaving Sally rather sober and silent. Fox watched her and wondered, and Mrs. Ladue, in her turn, watched Fox. She could do that without being observed, now that Henrietta was gone. But the noise that told of that Sawny horse was coming, and they got into line.

CHAPTER IV

Whatever the things in which Everett Morton had failed, driving was not one of them. There was some excuse for his not succeeding in any of the things he had tried: he did not have to. Take away the necessity and how many of us would make a success of our business or our profession? For that matter, how many of us are there who can honestly say that we have made a success of the profession which we have happened to choose? I say "happened to choose," because it is largely a matter of luck whether we have happened to choose what we would really rather do. Any man is peculiarly fortunate if he has known enough and has been able to choose the thing that he would rather do than anything else, and such a man should have a very happy life. He should be very grateful to his parents. I envy him. Most of us are the slaves of circ.u.mstances and let them decide for us; and then, perhaps too late, discover that which we had rather--oh, so much rather--do than follow on in the occupation which fate has forced us into. We have to labor in our "leisure" time in the work which we should have chosen, but did not; as if the demands of to-day--if we would succeed--left us any leisure time!

It is not to be supposed that Everett had such thoughts as these. He was concerned only with Sawny, at the moment, and with Mr. Gilfeather.

He may have had the fleeting thought that he made rather a fine figure, in his coat and cap of sables and with his bored, handsome face. Indeed, he did. A good many people thought so. Even Sally may have thought so; but Sally did not say what she thought. As Everett made the turn at the head of the course, he looked around for Mr.

Gilfeather, and presently he found him. Mr. Gilfeather was a hard-featured man, with a red face and a great weight of body, which was somewhat of a handicap to his horse. But if the horse expressed no objection to that and if Mr. Gilfeather did not, why, Everett was the last person in the world to raise the question.

"Try it again?" Mr. Gilfeather called, smiling genially.

Everett nodded. He did manage a bored half-smile, but it could not be called genial, by any stretch of the word.

They manoeuvred their horses until they were abreast, and jogged down the course. They wanted it clear, as far as they could get it; and Mr.

Gilfeather's horse fretted at the bit and at the tight hold upon him.

Sawny did not. He knew what he had to do. And presently the course opened out clear for a good distance ahead.

"What do you say, Everett?" asked Mr. Gilfeather. A good many people heard it and noted that Gilfeather called Morton Everett. "Shall we let 'em go?"

Everett nodded again, and Mr. Gilfeather took off one wrap of the reins. The nervous horse sprang ahead, but Sawny did not. He knew what was expected of him. Everett had not been keeping a tight hold on him; not tight enough to worry him, although, to be sure, it was not easy to worry Sawny. So, when Everett tightened a little upon his bit, Sawny responded by increasing his stride just enough to keep his nose even with Mr. Gilfeather. He could look over Mr. Gilfeather's shoulder and see what he was doing with the reins. Perhaps he did. Sawny was a knowing horse and he almost raced himself.

Mr. Gilfeather's horse had drawn ahead with that first burst of speed, and now, seeing that Everett was apparently content, for the time, with his place, Mr. Gilfeather tried to check him, for he knew Everett's methods--or shall I say Sawny's?--and there was three quarters of a mile to go. But Sawny's nose just over his shoulder made him nervous; and the rhythmical sound of Sawny's sharp shoes cutting into the ice--always just at his ear, it seemed--made him almost as nervous as his horse, although Mr. Gilfeather did not look like a nervous man. So he let his horse go a little faster than he should have done, which was what the horse wanted; anything to get away from that crash--crash of hoofs behind him.

But always Sawny held his position, lengthening his stride as much as the occasion called for. He could lengthen it much more, if there were need, as he knew very well; as he knew there soon would be. Mr.

Gilfeather's horse--and Mr. Gilfeather himself--got more nervous every second. The horse, we may presume, was in despair. Every effort that he had made to shake Sawny off had failed. He hung about Mr.

Gilfeather's shoulder with the persistence of a green-head.

In these positions, the horses pa.s.sed down between the yelling crowds.

Mr. Gilfeather may have heard the yelling, but Everett did not. It fell upon his ears unheeded, like the sound of the sea or of the wind in the trees. He was intent upon but one thing now, and that thing was not the noise of the mult.i.tude.

When there was but a quarter of a mile to go, Sawny felt a little more pressure upon the bit and heard Everett's voice speaking low.

"Now, stretch yourself, Sawny," said that voice cheerfully.

And Sawny stretched himself to his full splendid stride and the sound of that crash of hoofs came a little faster. It pa.s.sed Mr.

Gilfeather's shoulder and he had a sight of red nostrils spread wide; then of Sawny's clean-cut head and intelligent eye. Did that eye wink at him? Then came the lean neck and then the shoulder: a skin like satin, with the muscles working under it with the regularity of a machine; then the body--but Mr. Gilfeather had no time for further observation out of the corner of his eye. His horse had heard, too, and knew what was happening; and when Mr. Gilfeather urged him on to greater speed, he tried to go faster and he broke.

That was the end of it. He broke, he went into the air, he danced up and down; and Sawny, who never was guilty of that crime, went by him like a streak.

Everett smiled as he pa.s.sed Mr. Gilfeather, and his smile was a little less bored than usual. "If I had known that this was to be a running-race," he said; but Mr. Gilfeather lost the rest of Everett's remark, for Sawny had carried him out of hearing.

It chanced that they had pa.s.sed the Hazens' sleigh just before Mr.

Gilfeather's horse broke. Sally watched the horses as they pa.s.sed, with Sawny gaining at every stride. Her face glowed and she turned to Fox.

"There!" she said. "Now you've seen him. Isn't he splendid?"

"Who? Mr. Morton?" Fox asked innocently. "He does look rather splendid. That must be a very expensive coat and the--"

Sally smiled. "It was Sawny that I meant."

"Oh," said Fox.

"Everett might be included, no doubt," she continued.

"No doubt," Fox agreed.

"He is part of it, although there is a popular opinion that Sawny could do it all by himself, if he had to."

"Having been well trained," Fox suggested.

Sally nodded. "Having been well trained. And Everett trained him, I believe."

Fox was more thoughtful than the occasion seemed to call for. "It speaks well for his ability as a trainer of horses."

"It does." Sally seemed thoughtful, too.

"And what else does Mr. Morton do," asked Fox, "but train his horse?"

"Not much, I believe," Sally replied. "At other seasons he drives his car; when the roads are good."

"A n.o.ble occupation for a man," Fox observed, cheerfully and pleasantly; "driver and chauffeur. Not that those occupations are not quite respectable, but it hardly seems enough for a man of Mr.

Morton's abilities, to say the least."

Sally looked up with a quick smile. "I am no apologist for Everett,"

she said. "I am not defending him, you observe. I know nothing of his abilities."

"What do you know, Sally," Fox inquired then, "of popular opinion?"

"More than you think, Fox," Sally answered mischievously, "for I have mixed with the people. I have been to Mr. Gilfeather's saloon."

"Oh, _Sally_!" cried Patty, "I _wish_ you wouldn't keep alluding to your visit to that horrible place. I am sure that it was unnecessary."

"Very well, Cousin Patty, I won't mention it if it pains you." She turned to Fox again. "I was going to say that it is a great pity."

Fox was somewhat mystified. "I have no doubt that it is, if you say so. I might fall in with your ideas more enthusiastically if I knew what you were talking about."

"I am talking about Everett," Sally replied, chuckling. "I don't wonder that you didn't know. And I was prepared to make a rather pathetic speech, Fox. You have dulled the point of it, so that I shall not make it, now."

"To the effect, perhaps, if I may venture to guess," Fox suggested, "that Everett might have made more of a success of some other things if he had felt the same interest in them that he feels in racing his horse."