“Don't mention it!” said Sir Redmond, somewhat dubiously. It was his favorite stick, and he had taken excellent care of it. It was finely polished, and it had his name and regiment engraved upon the silver knob--and a date which the Boers will not soon forget, nor the English, for that matter. “We'll soon be over the worst,” Dick told them, after a time. “When we climb that hill we'll have a hard, gravelly trail straight to the ranch. I'm sorry it had to storm; I wanted you to enjoy this trip.” “I am enjoying it,” Beatrice assured him. “It's something new, at any rate, and anything is better than the deadly monotony of Newport.” “Beatrice!” cried her mother “I'm ashamed of you!” “You needn't be, mama. Why won't you just be sorry for yourself, and let it end there? I know you hated to come, poor dear; but you wouldn't think of letting me come alone, though I'm sure I shouldn't have minded. This is going to be a delicious summer--I feel it in my bones.” “Be-atrice!” “Why, mama? Aren't young ladies supposed to have bones?” “Young ladies are not supposed to make use of unrefined expressions. Your poor sister.” “There, mama. Dear Dolly didn't live upon stilts, I'm sure. Even when she married.” “Be-atrice!” “Dear me, mama! I hope you are not growing peevish. Peevish elderly people--” “Auntie! I want to go home!” the small boy wailed. “You cannot go home now, dear,” sighed his guardian angel. “Look at the pretty--” She hesitated, groping vaguely for some object to which she might conscientiously apply the adjective. “Mud,” suggested Beatrice promptly “Look at the wheels, Dorman; they're playing patty-cake. See, now they say, 'Roll 'em, and roll 'em,' and now, 'Toss in the oven to bake!' And now--” “Auntie, I want to get out an' play patty-cake, like de wheels. I want to awf'lly!” “Beatrice, why did you put that into his head?” her mother demanded, fretfully. “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.