Greatly as he wished for the journey’s end, Pickles rode with judgment. The first doubt assailed him as he neared the Jill: would Swallow take the water? He was not kept long in doubt. Swallow knew better than to refuse. A master rider had put him through this stream, close to that very spot, in the dark of a not long distant night. The sight of the water sent the horse’s ears pricking forward; he entered readily and swam for the opposite bank the moment the ground left his feet. Pickles shouted his delight; it would have broken his heart to have been compelled to go back to the ford. Swallow scrambled out onto the bank with little trouble and stretched out once more in his sweeping gallop; he knew now where he was bound and pulled impatiently against the restraining touch. The pace was a source of wonder to Pickles; seven miles and a swim at the end of it and here he was asking for a loose rein, demanding it, and going faster than ever. "Darned if I believe he _can_ get tired," said Pickles; "go on then," and he gave him his head and smiled a tired smile to note how the powerful limbs quickened their action and the horse gathered pace until Pickles was travelling faster than ever before in his life. Only the smoothness of the motion gave him confidence in his own ability to hold out. "I could never ’a’ made it on th’ Goat," he reflected. "Go on, boy! Eat ’em up!" One slender black ear slanted toward him and away again. Swallow was eating ’em up the best he knew how. * * * * * Having made her decision, Rose listened carefully to Dave’s advice. The more he talked the better she understood the situation; and Dave had scarcely mounted to ride away before she began her own preparations. They appeared to be very simple, merely the apparelling for a ride and keeping watch after Dave to see that he kept on his way.