We took the return trip short cut. First we hit the brush, Mace's hoss breakin' trail, mine a clost second, the _po_lice gent number three. Then we hit open country, where they's allus a lot of young fellers and gals battin' balls over fly-nets. The crowd scattered, and we sailed by, takin' them nets like claim-jumpers. I heerd a whistle ahaid oncet, and seen a fat _po_liceman runnin' our way, wavin' his arms. Then we went tearin' on,--no stops fer stations--'round the lake, down a road that was thick with keerages,--beatin' ev'rybody in sight--then into timber again. It was that takin' to the woods the second time that done it. In Central Park is a place where they have ducks and geese (keep the Mayor in aigs, I heerd). Wal, just to east, like, of that place, is a butte, all rocks and wash-outs. The blue roan made that butte slick as a Rocky Mountain goat. (We'd shook off the _po_lice gent.) At the top, she pitched plumb over, losin' Mace so neat it didn't more 'n jar her. My hoss got down on his knees, and I come offen _my_ perch. Then both broncs went on. I was winded, so I didn't speak up fer a bit. Fact is, I didn't exac'ly know what to _re_mark. Oncet I thought I'd say, "You ridin' a diff'rent hoss t'day, Mace?" 'r "That roan of yourn can lope some." But both bein' kinda personal, I kept still. But pretty soon, I got a hunch. "I just _knowed_ that blamed muley saddle 'd butt me off some day," I says. "It was shore accomodatin', though, to let me down right here." She didn't say nothin'. She was settin agin a tree, another of them two-mile looks in her eyes, and she was gazin' off west. I lent her way just a little. "What you watchin', honey?" I ast. She blushed, awful cute. I could feel my heart movin' like a circular saw--two ways fer Sunday. "Honey, what you watchin'?" This time I kinda whispered it. She reached fer her George Washington, and begun fixin' to go. "The sky," she says, some short. I sighed, and pretended t' watch the sky, too. It looked yalla, like somebody 'd hit it with a aig. After while, I couldn't stand it no longer--I started in again. "Give me a fair shake, Macie," I says. I was lookin' at her. Say! they wasn't no squaw paint on _her_ cheeks, and no do-funny, drug-store stuff in that pretty hair of hern. And them grey eyes----! But she seemed a hull county off from me, and they was a right cold current blowin' in my _di_rection. "Mace," I begun again, "since you come t' Noo York you ain't got you'self promised, 'r nothin' like that, have you? If you have, I'll go back and make that Briggs City bunch look like a lot of colanders." She shook her haid. "Aw, Mace!" I says, turrible easied in my mind. "And--and, little gal, has that bug doc been a-holdin' down a chair at you' house of Sunday nights?" "No,--he come just oncet." "Why just oncet, honey?" "I didn't want him t' come no more." "He said somethin' insultin.' _I_ know. And when I see him again----"