The Fighting Chance | Page 2

voice.
The groom looked up, then stood up:
“Yis, Sorr.”
“Take these; I’m Mr. Siward--for Shotover House. I dare say you have
room for me and the dog, too.”
The groom opened his mouth to speak, but Siward took the crate key
from his fingers, knelt, and tried the lock. It resisted. From the depths

of the crate a beseeching paw fell upon his cuff.
“Certainly, old fellow,” he said soothingly, “I know how you feel about
it; I know you’re in a hurry--and we’ll have you out in a second--steady,
boy!--something’s jammed, you see! Only one moment now! There
you are!”
The dog attempted to bolt as the crate door opened, but the young man
caught him by the leather collar and the groom snapped on a leash.
“Beg pardon, Sorr,” began the groom, carried almost off his feet by the
frantic circling of the dog--“beg pardon, Sorr, but I’ll be afther seem’ if
anny of Mr. Ferrall’s men drove over for you--”
“Oh! Are you not one of Mr. Ferrall’s men?”
“Yis, Sorr, but I hadn’t anny orders to meet anny wan--”
“Haven’t you anything here to drive me in?”
“Yis, Sorr--I’ll look to see--”
The raw groom, much embarrassed, and keeping his feet with difficulty
against the plunging dog, turned toward the gravel drive where now
only a steam motor and a depot-wagon remained. As they looked the
motor steamed out, honking hoarsely; the depot-wagon followed,
leaving the circle at the end of the station empty of vehicles.
“Didn’t Mr. Ferrall expect me?” asked Siward.
“Aw, yis, Sorr; but the gintlemen for Shotover House does ginerally
allways coom by Black Fells, Sorr--”
“Oh, Lord!” said the young man, “I remember now. I should have gone
on to Black Fells Crossing; Mr. Ferrall wrote me!” Then, amused: “I
suppose you have only a baggage-wagon here?”
“No, Sorr--a phayton”--he hesitated.

“Well? Isn’t a phaeton all right?”
“Yis, Sorr--if th’ yoong lady says so--beg pardon, Sorr, Miss Landis is
driving.”
“Oh--h! I see. … Is Miss Landis a guest at Shotover House?”
“Yis, Sorr. An’ if ye would joost ask her--the phayton do be coming
now, Sorr!”
The phaeton was coming; the horse, a showy animal, executed
side-steps; blue ribbons fluttered from the glittering head-stall; a young
girl in white was driving.
Siward advanced to the platform’s edge as the phaeton drew up; the
young lady looked inquiringly at the groom, at the dog, and leisurely at
him.
So he took off his hat, naming himself in that well-bred and agreeable
manner characteristic of men of his sort,--and even his smile appeared
to be part and parcel of a conventional ensemble so harmonious as to
remain inconspicuous.
“You should have gone on to Black Fells Crossing,” observed Miss
Landis, coolly controlling the nervous horse. “Didn’t you know it?”
He said he remembered now that such were the directions given him.
The girl glanced at him incuriously, and with more curiosity at the dog.
“Is that the Sagamore pup, Flynn?” she asked.
“It is, Miss.”
“Can’t you take him on the rumble with you?” And, to Siward: “There
is room for your gun and suit case.”
“And for me?” he asked, smiling.
“I think so. Be careful of that Sagamore pup, Flynn. Hold him between

your knees. Are you ready, Mr. Siward?”
So he climbed in; the groom hoisted the dog to the rumble and sprang
up behind; the horse danced and misbehaved, making a spectacle of
himself and an agreeable picture of his driver; then the pretty little
phaeton swung northward out of the gravel drive and went whirling
along a road all misty with puffs of yellow dust which the afternoon
sun turned to floating golden powder.
“Did you send my telegram, Flynn?” she asked without turning her
head.
“I did, Miss.”
It being the most important telegram she had ever sent in all her life,
Miss Landis became preoccupied,--quite oblivious to extraneous details,
including Siward, until the horse began acting badly again. Her slightly
disdainful and perfect control of the reins interested the young man. He
might have said something civil and conventional about that, but did
not make the effort to invade a reserve which appeared to embarrass
nobody.
A stacatto note from the dog, prolonged infinitely in hysterical
crescendo, demanded comment from somebody.
“What is the matter with him, Flynn?” she asked.
Siward said: “You should let him run, Miss Landis.”
She nodded, smiling, inattentive, absorbed in her own affairs, still
theorising concerning her telegram. She drove on for a while, and
might have forgotten the dog entirely had he not once more lifted his
voice in melancholy.
“You say he ought to run for a mile or two? Do you think he’ll bolt, Mr.
Siward?”
“Is he a new dog?”

“Yes, fresh from the kennels; supposed to be house-and