The thin one was driving the piebald pony. "Gidap, Ginger!" she announced, flapping the reins. She had better have refrained from waking up Ginger just at that moment. A fickle breath of wind pounced upon an outspread newspaper lying on the grass, fluttered it for a moment, and then, getting fairly under the printed sheet, heaved it into the air. Ginger caught a glimpse of the fluttering paper. He halted suddenly, with all four feet braced and ears forward, fairly snorting his surprise. As the paper began flopping across the road, he began to back. The whites of his eyes showed plainly and he snorted again. The wind-shaken paper utterly dissipated the pony's corn-fed complacency. "Oh! Oh! Gidap!" shrieked the thin old lady. "He--he's backin' us into the ditch, Pussy," cried her sister. "I--I can't help it, Blossom," gasped the driver of the frightened pony. The phaeton really was getting perilously near the edge of the undefended ditch, when Janice ran out beside the pony's head, clutched at his bridle, and halted him in his mad career. The paper dropped into the ditch and lay still, and the pony began to nuzzle Janice's hand. "Isn't he just cunning!" gasped the girl, turning to look at the two little old ladies. From a nearby house appeared a lath-like man, who strode out to the road, grinning broadly. "Hi tunket! Ye did come purty nigh backin' into the ditch _that_ time, gals," he cackled. "All right now, ain't ye? That there leetle gal is some spry. Ginger ain't shown so much sperit since b'fore Adam!" "Now, I tell ye, Mr. Cross Moore," declared the driver of the pony, sharply, "we came very near having a serious accident. And all because these rails aren't repaired. You're one of the_se_-lectmen and you'd oughter have sense enough to repair that railin'. Wait till somebody drives plump into the ditch and the town has a big damage bill to pay." "Aw, now, there ain't many folks drives this way," defended Mr. Cross Moore. "There's enough. And think o' Hopewell Drugg's Lottie. She's always running up and down this lane. Somebody's goin' to pitch head-fust inter that ditch yet, Cross Moore, an' then you'll be sorry." She was a very vigorous-speaking old lady, that was sure. The sister by her side was of much milder temperament, and she was thanking Janice very sweetly while the other scolded Selectman Moore. "We thank you very much, my dear. You are much braver than _I_ am, for I'm free to confess I'm afraid of all cattle," said the plump old lady, in a somewhat shaken voice. "Who are you, my dear? I don't remember seeing you before." "I am Janice Day, Ma'am." "Day? You belong here in Poketown? There's Days live on Hillside Avenue." "Yes, Ma'am," confessed Janice. "Mr. Jason Day is my uncle. But I am Broxton Day's daughter."