Page 172 - A Little Bush Maid

"That feller pack-mare," Billy said briefly. "Broken hobbles--clear out.
Plenty!" He produced a hobble as he spoke, the broken leather telling its

own tale.

Mr. Linton uttered an exclamation of anger.

"That comes of not seeing to the hobbles myself," he said sharply. "No sign

of her?"

Billy shook his head.

"Not likely," Mr. Linton said; "that old mare would make for home like a

shot. T dare say she’s half-way there by now. Well, Billy, there’s only one
thing to do--get your pony saddled and go after her."

Billy’s face expressed unuttered depths of woe.

"Get your breakfast first," said his master; "there’s no particular hurry, for
you’re bound to have to go all the way home--and bring some good hobbles

back with you, if you do!"

Billy slid to the ground.

"Plenty!" he said ruefully.

Billy, a black vision of despondency, had faded away into the distance,
making his chestnut pony pay for the disappointment of his long ride back

to the homestead for the missing mare. Norah and her father had "cleaned
up house," as Norah put it, and again they were sitting on the old log that

spanned the creek.

Their lines were in water, but the fish were shy. The promise of a hot day

had driven them to the shady hollows under the banks. The juiciest worms
failed to lure them from their hiding-places. Norah thought it dull and said

so.