Her target shot her a glance of equal pity for her lack of
understanding and empty-headed banter. He stalked to the barnyard
gate and opened it. The way to his haven over the border was no
longer barred. He returned to Dexter, firmly grasped the bridle
reins under his weak chin and cajoled him again to the watering
trough. Metta Judson was about to be overwhelmed with confusion.
From the edge of the trough he again clambered into the saddle, the
new boots groping a way to the stirrups. The reins in his left hand,
he swept off his ideal hat with a careless gesture--he wished he had
had an art study made of this, but you can't think of everything at
one time. He turned loftily to Metta as one who had not even heard
her tasteless taunts.
"Well, so long! I won't be out late." Metta was now convinced that
she had in her heart done this hero a wrong.
"You better be here before the folks get back!" she warned.
Merton knew this as well as she did, but the folks wouldn't be back
for a couple of hours yet, and all he meant to venture was a ride at
sober pace the length of the alley.
"Oh, I'll take care of that!" he said.
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