quick-springing gallop, followed by the colt going with a long, easy,
loping stride. For a mile they kept side by side till they reached the
Camerons' lane, when Ranald held in the colt and allowed the pony to
lead. As they passed through the Camerons' yard the big black dogs,
famous bear-hunters, came baying at them. The pony regarded them with
indifference, but the colt shied and plunged.

"Whoa, Liz!" Liz was Ranald's contraction for Lizette, the name of the
French horse-trainer and breeder, Jules La Rocque, gave to her mother,
who in her day was queen of the ice at L'Original Christmas races.

"Be quate, Nigger, will you!" The dogs, who knew Ranald well, ceased
their clamor, but not before the kitchen door opened and Don Cameron
came out.

Don was about a year older than Ranald and was his friend and comrade.

"It's me, Don--and Mrs. Murray there."

Don gazed speechless.

"And what--" he began.

"Father is not well. He is hurted, and Mrs. Murray is going to see him,
and we must go."

Ranald hurried through his story, impatient to get on.

"But are you going up through the bush?" asked Don.