The clatter of my hoofs made both Mr. England and Martin glance back. They saw Missy coming after, pulling me in with might and main, and fairly standing in her stirrups. Mr. England gave Martin the reins and sprang to the ground. The trap was turned squarely across the drive. And I came bouncing into it, Mr. England catching at my bridle. Missy dismounted, breathing hard. “Thank you, thank you,” she said. “What possessed you, Hector? Oh, there’s something the matter with the darling!” At that Thunderbolt turned his head. “Overfeeding,” he snickered. The hide-bound spavin! “I think,” Mr. England was saying, “that you’d better not ride to the stable. Martin will drive you home, and I’ll take charge of this chap. He’s still excited.” (I was only out of temper with Thunderbolt.) But poor Missy! She lowered the nigh stirrup quick as a wink. “No, no, it really isn’t necessary,” she said; “_Really it isn’t._ I wouldn’t for the world let Hector think he’d scared me. It would spoil him. I must ride him right away, and conquer him.” And she mounted. Martin had turned the trap by now, for other vehicles were passing. But Mr. England did not get up. “You’re right, of course,” he answered. “If he thinks he beat you out, he’ll only bully you every chance he gets after this. But still I must insist on taking you to the stable. We’ll go slowly, and you put his nose close behind the rumble and keep it there.” I felt the reins tremble dreadfully. It wasn’t fear, either. Then Missy bent over, speaking low. “Mr. England,” she said earnestly, “not Martin. Won’t you send him home with Thunderbolt? _Please._” Mr. England saw that she was troubled about something and he gave her her head. “Martin,” he called to the groom, “you take the trap in. And attend to that thong on the whiffletree--it doesn’t hold the trace.” Thunderbolt went trotting off. Mr. England turned back to Missy. “Hector seems a little quieter now,” he said. Then I saw that Missy wasn’t going to let Mr. England come with her any more than she had Martin. “There isn’t any reason for your coming,” she said. “Hector’s like a lamb.” For a second, I thought he hesitated. But I settled _that_. With a little squeal and a shake of my head, I reared--just a trifle. Quick as a fly, Mr. England had my reins. “He isn’t over his tantrum yet, you see,” he said quietly, but very decidedly. “I can’t think of letting you take him in alone.” Well, Missy protested. But he was firm. And we started for the entrance, with him at my bridle. As soon as I saw he was really coming, I hung my head and went along like a case of chest-founder. When we reached the street, he took to the sidewalk, watching me every instant though, and watching poor Missy. She was hanging her head, too. At a corner, Mr. England turned north, expecting us to follow. For that was the way to Hawley’s. Missy reined me up and called to him, and he came back.