is cavortings when feeling exceptionally fit from his
unaccustomed diet of oats and feed. Out in Arizona his food had consisted
of alfalfa grass with an occasional "feed" thrown in, so it is not
surprising that the new order of high living somewhat intoxicated him.
But Apache had won his place at Woodbine.

As the young people were about to set forth upon their two-mile trip for
the mail Mrs. Ashby warned:

"Now Beverly be careful, dear. Apache has a lively tickle in his toes
this crisp morning, and besides the roads are terribly muddy and slippery
from last night's shower."

"I'll be careful mumsey dear," answered the girl, as she ran down the
steps to spring upon her mount.

"Careful and _no_ racing with the boys, remember," Mrs. Ashby called
after her.

Perhaps Beverly did not hear the concluding admonition. At any rate we'll
give her the benefit of the doubt, for at that moment Apache gave
testimony of the tickle in his toes by springing straight up into the air
in as good an imitation of a "buck" as any "thoroughly gentled" little
broncho could give in the polite society of his aristocratic Virginia
cousins. Mrs. Ashby gave a startled exclamation, but Beverly, secure in
her seat, waved a merry good-by and was off after the boys who were
calling to her to "hurry up."

Of course they had not heard one word of the foregoing conversation. Had
they done so it is safe to say that they would never had proposed the
two-mile race to the post office nor tormented Beverly for being "no sort
of a sport," and "scared to back her painted plug against their
thoroughbreds." They were honorable lads and would have felt honor-bound
to respect Mrs. Ashby's wishes. But not having heard, they gave Beverly
"all that was coming to her for riding a calico nag," though said "nag"
was certainly a little beauty.

Nearly a quarter of the distance to Four Corners had been ridden when
Beverly's temper, never too elastic, snapped. Her riding crop descended
with a thwack, first upon Royal's round flank, then upon Snowdrift's and
finally upon Apache's side as she cried:

"You-all hush up and _ride_. I'll beat you to Four Corners or die in the
attempt!"

The sudden onslaught brought the result to be expected. The two
thoroughbreds plunged forward with snorts of indignant protest, answered
by Apache's very plebian squeal of rage as he shook his bony little head
and struck into a gait such as Beverly had never dreamed a horse could
strike