n able to speak with, the old ringmaster just then the
pony would doubtless have pointed out an important error in the above
statement.

Scalawag was petted and fed and well cared for. But as the fall weather
was so pleasant, each afternoon he was put between the shafts and was
made to haul noisy, delighted little folk about the Parade Ground.

They did not always have company in these drives, however. Sometimes
only Tess and Dot were in the basket carriage, though usually Sammy was
along. Once in a while they went on errands for Mrs. MacCall--to the
store, or to carry things to sick people. The clatter of Scalawag's
little hoofs became well known upon many of the highways and byways of
Milton.

Once they drove to the Women's and Children's Hospital with a basket of
home-made jellies and jams that Mrs. MacCall had just put up and which
Ruth wished to donate to the convalescents in the institution. For after
the departure of Mrs. Eland and her sister, Miss Peperill, for the West,
the Corner House Girls had not lost their interest in this charitable
institution.

At a corner which they were approaching at Scalawag's usual jog trot
were several carriages, a hearse with plumes, and some men in uniform.
Sammy had the reins on this day.

"Oh, Sammy," said Tess, "we'll have to wait, I guess. It's Mr. Mudge's
funeral--Mr. Peter Mudge, you know. He was a Grand Army man, and all the
other Grand Army men will help bury him. There! Hear the band!"

Of a sudden, and with a moaning of wind instruments punctuated by the
roll of drums, the band struck into a dirge. The procession moved. And
all of a sudden Sammy found that Scalawag was marking time just as he
had been taught to do in the circus ring to any music.

"Oh, my!" gasped Dot, "what is the matter with Scalawag?"

"Turn him around, Sammy--please do," begged Tess. "Just see him! And
he's following the band."

That is just exactly what the pony intended to do. Sammy could not turn
him. He would mind neither voice nor the tugging rein. Arching his neck,
tossing his mane, and stepping high in time to the droning music, the
calico pony turned the corner and followed on at the rear of the
procession.

"Why--why," gasped Dot, "I don't want to go to a funeral. You stop him,
Sammy Pinkney."

"Can't we turn him up a side street, Sammy?" whispered Tess.

Everybody was looking from the sidewalk and from the houses they passed.
It was a ridiculous situation. The solemn, slow