Two hours later, when Kenneth came back from his calls, Pondy had not returned. Half an hour went by and he was beginning to feel anxious, when there was the sound of fast-coming wheels and Con came swiftly up the steep hill, her head held high, her eyes and nostrils extended and her sides covered with flecks of white foam. “I tell you, she’s a ‘corker,’” Pondy said, as he fell rather than stepped from the buggy. “I’m mush oblige, an’ have ’joyed myshelf ’mensely.” “Which is more than can be said of the horse. What did you do to her?” Kenneth answered, as he began to unharness the trembling animal, who rubbed her head against his arm with a low whinny, as if she would tell him what had been done. Pondy saw he was offended, and began, in a half-tipsy way, to explain that he had done nothing but chirp to her a little and pull the reins, and once hit her a cut just to see how fast she could go, “and, by Shorge, couldn’t schtop her at all; went up hill an’ down as if the devil was behind her!” he said. “As I think he was,” Kenneth replied, leading the horse to the stable, followed by Charlie Browne, who used some strong language with regard to Pondy. “Took with him a bottle of whiskey,” he said, “and soon became a drivelling fool, urging the horse to her utmost speed, and finally gave her a smart cut with the whip. After that there was no restraining her, and she came home like the wind, a distance of ten miles from where they turned round, making in all a twenty mile drive in little over two hours on one of the hottest days in summer.” This was Charlie’s account, and after he left, Kenneth stayed a long time with his horse, rubbing her down and talking to her as if she could understand what he said and know he was indignant. And every tender, loving word he said to her and every caress he gave her was more for the Connie over the sea than for her. He called her Connie two or three times, and wondered what the real Connie would think of the house-party, and especially of Pondy.