"But suppose it was Alice? Nonsense!" Jimmie argued contrarily. "He'd think it was the name of the oats. Just as if you said Bran, Bran! or Force, Force! or Shredded--" "Now Jimmie, please stop. And be serious and think. You _know_ we've got to call him _something_. Why just think! If anyone should stop us and ask us what was our horse's name. And we'd have to say that we didn't know. And then they'd tell somebody else. And somebody else would stop us and ask us. And then we'd be stopped and suspected and arrested and maybe put in a jail somewhere." "_I_ wouldn't," said Jimmie basely. "_I_ didn't steal the horse." He stooped quickly as though he expected something to be thrown at his head. But as his eye caught something on the collar he straightened up exultantly. "It's all right!" he exclaimed eagerly. "We're safe! Here's his name on the collar." "Oh, on his collar! I didn't know they did that for horses. Let me see." "There it is, plain as his nose." "Donahue," Augusta read. "But that isn't _his_ name. That's his father's name--I mean, Mary's father's name--I mean, his owner's name." "No," said Jimmie gravely. "I'm afraid you don't understand at all. You see, gypsies are that way. The oldest horse--You will admit that this is the oldest horse--the oldest horse is always called by the family name. You understand, it's just like in England. You know they never think of calling the son and heir by any boy's name. He is not Billie or Teddy or anything like that. He's simply called by the name of the house. He's Kingsmead, or Duncastle, or Ravenwood--So strong, you know, and effective." "So," he waved his hand by way of introduction, "we have with us, 'Donahue.'" Augusta crinkled up her little nose. She knew that Jimmie was quite capable of cooking up the whole explanation on the instant. But, as she had no way of convicting him just now, she accepted the introduction and called out sweetly to the horse who was grazing unconcernedly at the end of his tie-rope: "Donahue!" He lifted his head. So it was settled. His name was Donahue. Jimmie glowed with virtuous triumph as he led "Donahue" over to the wagon, slung on the harness and backed him between the shafts. But as Augusta finally climbed into the wagon she noticed a name painted on the front boxing under their seat. While Jimmie went through the wholly superlative business of guiding Donahue out to the open road--the horse would have done much better if let have his own head--Augusta wriggled skilfully back into the body of the wagon, to search for further proofs of Jimmie's duplicity. Evidently she found plenty of them, for when she got back into her place her face was red with exertion and suppressed anger. Jimmie gave his entire attention to the road ahead, driving ostentatiously with both hands as though he were in the finish of a crowded race--Donahue would not have left his sober, middle-of-the-road walk for anything less than a roaring motor truck.