“I’m pretty well, ’xcept that bof my front teef are loose,” replied the little boy seriously. “I can’t eat corn or apples, ’cept wiv my side teef.” “Don’t you think it’s about time you taught that boy to speak the English language, Barbara? It’s _teeth_ and _with_, my boy. Don’t let me hear you make that babyish blunder again.” The child hung his head, his face flushing to a shamed scarlet under his thatch of yellow hair. “I’m going to try,” he said manfully. “Want to take a ride with me, old man?” asked David. “Your sister says she can’t.” Jimmy looked up eagerly into Barbara’s face for the coveted permission. “I’m going to drive over to the fair,” pursued David. “I’d like to take my best girl along pretty well; but you’ll do, Jimmy.” Barbara hesitated, her eyes averted. “Of course, if you’re afraid to trust him with me——” mocked David. “I’ve a tolerably fast horse here, and I’m supposed to be a reckless——” “It isn’t that,” she interrupted hurriedly. “He may go, if he’d like to.” Jimmy burst into a shout of joy. “I guess I’d better brush my hair,” he exulted, “and put on my best clo’es! Shall I, Barbara?” “You’re well enough as you are,” David said peremptorily. “Jump in, boy, and we’ll be off!” She stood watching them as they drove away, the little boy’s yellow hair blowing about his rosy face. “Good-bye, Barbara!” he shouted. “We’re going awful fast!” David’s attention seemed centred upon his horse. He did not once look at the girl, as she waved her hand in token of a cheerful good-bye. XXII DAVID was quite his expansive, good-humored self again by the time he and Jimmy reached the fair-grounds. He joked with the little boy about his capacity for pink lemonade and peanuts as he drove his spirited young horse carefully into the crowded enclosure; and Jimmy, all eager and glowing with joyous anticipation, gazed with round eyes at the stirring scene. Everywhere flags fluttered merrily in the wind, and the crash and blare of band-music mingled with the shouts of vendors, the trampling of feet, and the hum of many voices. “Hello, Dave! Goin’ t’ trot that nag o’ yourn?” called a voice from among the crowd of men and boys lined up along the race-track. “Oh, hello, Bud Hawley! That you?” responded Dave, pulling in his horse. “Why, no; I hadn’t thought of it. It’s too late to enter; isn’t it?” The Barford liveryman, tipping a solemn wink at the men near him, slowly advanced and stood, his hat pulled low over his eyes, examining David’s horse. He passed an experienced hand over his withers, felt his hock-joints, lifted his feet, and stared critically at the frogs and the setting of his shoes. Then he sauntered around in front and looked the animal full in the face, his cautious hand still feeling, caressing, sliding from neck to powerful shoulder, from shoulder to slender foreleg.