anyway? Nobody about here knows them, and why should I set myself
up for a precious numbskull of a scholar? I'd rather be a crack
shot like you any day! I tell you one thing," he finished,
sucking in his breath in a way that had annoyed Christopher from
the first, "I've half a mind to run away or fall ill after I get
there!"

Christopher turned suddenly, slapped the mare on the flank, and
came out of the stall, the currycomb still in his hand. His shirt
sleeves were rolled above his elbows, and the muscles of his arms
stood out like cords under the sunburned skin, which showed a
paler bronze from the wrists up. He was flushed from leaning
over, and his clothes smelled strongly of the stable.

"If you do, come to me, " he said lightly, "and I'll hide you in
the barn till the storm blows over. It wouldn't last long, I
reckon."

"Bless you, no; when he's scared I can do anything with him. Why,
he was as soft as mush after the horses ran away with me, though
he'd threatened to thrash me if I touched the reins. Oh, I say
it's a shame we never had that 'possum hunt!"

Christopher turned down his shirt sleeves and brushed the chaff
from his face.

"What do you say about to-night?" he inquired, with something
like a sneer. "We couldn't go far, of course, and we'd have to
borrow Tom Spade's hounds--mine are tired out--but we might have
a short run about midnight, get a 'possum or so, and be in our