"Never mind, honey," called Beatrice cheeringly. "You and I will make
hundreds of mud pies when we get to Uncle Dick's ranch. Just think, hon,
oodles of beautiful, yellow mud just beside the door!"

"Look here, Trix! Seems to me you're promising a whole lot you can't
make good. I don't live in a 'dobe patch."

"Hush, Dick; don't spoil everything. You don't know Dorman.'

"Beatrice! What must Miss Hayes and Sir Redmond think of you? I'm sure
Dorman is a sweet child, the image of poor, dear Dorothea, at his age."

"We all think Dorman bears a strong resemblance to his father," said his
Aunt Mary.

Beatrice, scenting trouble, hurried to change the subject. "What's this,
Dick--the Missouri River?"

"Hardly. This is the water that didn't fall in the buggy. It isn't deep;
it makes bad going worse, that's all."

Thinking to expedite matters, he struck Hawk sharply across the flank.
It was a foolish thing to do, and Dick knew it when he did it; ten
seconds later he knew it better.

Hawk reared, tired as he was, and lunged viciously.

The double-trees snapped and splintered; there was a brief interval of
plunging, a shower of muddy water in that vicinity, and then two
draggled, disgusted brown horses splashed indignantly to shore and took