After they had returned to the parlors, both Mrs. Horton and Mrs. Osborn agreed that Marie had been shockingly rude to Lord Avondale. While they were talking of the affair in one corner, Ethel—sotto voce—was telling Marie that she was the dearest girl in the world, and that she loved her more than ever for having vanquished Lord Avondale. Soon after, the guests took their departure, and the next day Lord Avondale left Meade on the stage-coach, to enjoy a few months’ shooting in Colorado. CHAPTER XXI.—THE FOOT-RACE THE Saturday afternoon following the dinner at the Hortons’ and Lord Avondale’s departure, several ranchmen, cattlemen, and townspeople were seated on the veranda of the hotel. They had been discussing local politics and venturing opinions as to the probable result of the coming election. “I’m assoomin’ the only big money I’ve got to bet on the ‘lection,” said Bill Kinneman, “is on the proposition thet nobody kin tell fur sure jist how ‘t will come out. Mos’ every one’s jist guessin’ and strugglin’ in the coils uv error.” This truism seemed to strike the humorous side of those present, and they guffawed their approval. “I reckon,” said Dan Spencer, “a feller kin onbosom hisself an’ tell purty nigh as much ‘bout ‘lection, as they kin when Lord Avondale will be hoofin’ back inter these ‘ere diggin’s. Don’t like the English nohow.” “What do you know about the English people, Dan Spencer?” asked Bill Mounce, the blacksmith, rather tartly. “Let me say to you the English are all right. My mother was born in England and I’ll fight for my mother and her people as quickly as I would for my father’s side of the family.” “Bravo! Bravo!” shouted those listening. “The facts are,” said Len Follick, a sturdy-looking farmer, “nearly every one of us can trace our lineage back to old England in one or the other branches of our family, and the idea of us condemning England because of a few Lord Avondales—more or less—is quite ridiculous.” Dan Spencer’s tooth was shaking around like a weathercock in a wind-storm, but before he could make reply the blacksmith said: “Why, boys, look for instance at Seaton Cornwall. You all know him. He is one of the best citizens in the country. He’s English all over, but none of you ever heard him say a slighting word of this country or its flag.” “Guess, Dan, you’ll hev to cave in; you’re sure’nuff locoed,” laughed Kinneman, “everybody knows Seaton Cornwall is one of the whitest fellers thet ever galloped over the range.” “Say, what you fellers talkin’ ‘bout anyway?” asked Judge Lynn, coming up on the veranda. “What’s we all talkin’ ‘bout?” said Dan Spencer, glad to turn the conversation, “why, we’s jist talkin’ ‘bout hoss-racin’, foot-racin,’ an’ ‘lections, wonderin’ who’d git the offices, an’ gen’rally stampedin’ our brains ‘round a whole lot. B’lieve you used to be a foot-racer, did n’t you, Judge? Can you run now?”