CHAPTER IV

Whatever the things in which Everett Morton had failed, driving was not one of them. There was some excuse for his not succeeding in any of the things he had tried: he did not have to. Take away the necessity and how many of us would make a success of our business or our profession? For that matter, how many of us are there who can honestly say that we have made a success of the profession which we have happened to choose? I say "happened to choose," because it is largely a matter of luck whether we have happened to choose what we would really rather do. Any man is peculiarly fortunate if he has known enough and has been able to choose the thing that he would rather do than anything else, and such a man should have a very happy life. He should be very grateful to his parents. I envy him. Most of us are the slaves of circumstances and let them decide for us; and then, perhaps too late, discover that which we had rather--oh, so much rather--do than follow on in the occupation which fate has forced us into. We have to labor in our "leisure" time in the work which we should have chosen, but did not; as if the demands of to-day--if we would succeed--left us any leisure time!

It is not to be supposed that Everett had such thoughts as these. He was concerned only with Sawny, at the moment, and with Mr. Gilfeather. He may have had the fleeting thought that he made rather a fine figure, in his coat and cap of sables and with his bored, handsome face. Indeed, he did. A good many people thought so. Even Sally may have thought so; but Sally did not say what she thought. As Everett made the turn at the head of the course, he looked around for Mr. Gilfeather, and presently he found him. Mr. Gilfeather was a hard-featured man, with a red face and a great weight of body, which was somewhat of a handicap to his horse. But if the horse expressed no objection to that and if Mr. Gilfeather did not, why, Everett was the last person in the world to raise the question.

"Try it again?" Mr. Gilfeather called, smiling genially.

Everett nodded. He did manage a bored half-smile, but it could not be called genial, by any stretch of the word.

They manoeuvred their horses until they were abreast, and jogged down the course. They wanted it clear, as far as they could get it; and Mr. Gilfeather's horse fretted at the bit and at the tight hold upon him. Sawny did not. He knew what he had to do. And presently the course opened out clear for a good distance ahead.

"What do you say, Everett?" asked Mr. Gilfeather. A good many people heard it and noted that Gilfeather called Morton Everett. "Shall we let 'em go?"

Everett nodded again, and Mr. Gilfeather took off one wrap of the reins. The nervous horse sprang ahead, but Sawny did not. He knew what was expected of him. Everett had not been keeping a tight hold on him; not tight enough to worry him, although, to be sure, it was not easy to worry Sawny. So, when Everett tightened a little upon his bit, Sawny responded by increasing his stride just enough to keep his nose even with Mr. Gilfeather. He could look over Mr. Gilfeather's shoulder and see what he was doing with the reins. Perhaps he did. Sawny was a knowing horse and he almost raced himself.

Mr. Gilfeather's horse had drawn ahead with that first burst of speed, and now, seeing that Everett was apparently content, for the time, with his place, Mr. Gilfeather tried to check him, for he knew Everett's methods--or shall I say Sawny's?--and there was three quarters of a mile to go. But Sawny's nose just over his shoulder made him nervous; and the rhythmical sound of Sawny's sharp shoes cutting into the ice--always just at his ear, it seemed--made him almost as nervous as his horse, although Mr. Gilfeather did not look like a nervous man. So he let his horse go a little faster than he should have done, which was what the horse wanted; anything to get away from that crash--crash of hoofs behind him.

But always Sawny held his position, lengthening his stride as much as the occasion called for. He could lengthen it much more, if there were need, as he knew very well; as he knew there soon would be. Mr. Gilfeather's horse--and Mr. Gilfeather himself--got more nervous every second. The horse, we may presume, was in despair. Every effort that he had made to shake Sawny off had failed. He hung about Mr. Gilfeather's shoulder with the persistence of a green-head.

In these positions, the horses passed down between the yelling crowds. Mr. Gilfeather may have heard the yelling, but Everett did not. It fell upon his ears unheeded, like the sound of the sea or of the wind in the trees. He was intent upon but one thing now, and that thing was not the noise of the multitude.

When there was but a quarter of a mile to go, Sawny felt a little more pressure upon the bit and heard Everett's voice speaking low.

"Now, stretch yourself, Sawny," said that voice cheerfully.

And Sawny stretched himself to his full splendid stride and the sound of that crash of hoofs came a little faster. It passed Mr. Gilfeather's shoulder and he had a sight of red nostrils spread wide; then of Sawny's clean-cut head and intelligent eye. Did that eye wink at him? Then came the lean neck and then the shoulder: a skin like satin, with the muscles working under it with the regularity of a machine; then the body--but Mr. Gilfeather had no time for further observation out of the corner of his eye. His horse had heard, too, and knew what was happening; and when Mr. Gilfeather urged him on to greater speed, he tried to go faster and he broke.

That was the end of it. He broke, he went into the air, he danced up and down; and Sawny, who never was guilty of that crime, went by him like a streak.

Everett smiled as he passed Mr. Gilfeather, and his smile was a little less bored than usual. "If I had known that this was to be a running-race," he said; but Mr. Gilfeather lost the rest of Everett's remark, for Sawny had carried him out of hearing.

It chanced that they had passed the Hazens' sleigh just before Mr. Gilfeather's horse broke. Sally watched the horses as they passed, with Sawny gaining at every stride. Her face glowed and she turned to Fox.

"There!" she said. "Now you've seen him. Isn't he splendid?"

"Who? Mr. Morton?" Fox asked innocently. "He does look rather splendid. That must be a very expensive coat and the--"

Sally smiled. "It was Sawny that I meant."

"Oh," said Fox.

"Everett might be included, no doubt," she continued.

"No doubt," Fox agreed.

"He is part of it, although there is a popular opinion that Sawny could do it all by himself, if he had to."

"Having been well trained," Fox suggested.

Sally nodded. "Having been well trained. And Everett trained him, I believe."

Fox was more thoughtful than the occasion seemed to call for. "It speaks well for his ability as a trainer of horses."

"It does." Sally seemed thoughtful, too.

"And what else does Mr. Morton do," asked Fox, "but train his horse?"

"Not much, I believe," Sally replied. "At other seasons he drives his car; when the roads are good."

"A noble occupation for a man," Fox observed, cheerfully and pleasantly; "driver and chauffeur. Not that those occupations are not quite respectable, but it hardly seems enough for a man of Mr. Morton's abilities, to say the least."

Sally looked up with a quick smile. "I am no apologist for Everett," she said. "I am not defending him, you observe. I know nothing of his abilities."

"What do you know, Sally," Fox inquired then, "of popular opinion?"

"More than you think, Fox," Sally answered mischievously, "for I have mixed with the people. I have been to Mr. Gilfeather's saloon."

"Oh, _Sally_!" cried Patty, "I _wish_ you wouldn't keep alluding to your visit to that horrible place. I am sure that it was unnecessary."

"Very well, Cousin Patty, I won't mention it if it pains you." She turned to Fox again. "I was going to say that it is a great pity."

Fox was somewhat mystified. "I have no doubt that it is, if you say so. I might fall in with your ideas more enthusiastically if I knew what you were talking about."

"I am talking about Everett," Sally replied, chuckling. "I don't wonder that you didn't know. And I was prepared to make a rather pathetic speech, Fox. You have dulled the point of it, so that I shall not make it, now."

"To the effect, perhaps, if I may venture to guess," Fox suggested, "that Everett might have made more of a success of some other things if he had felt the same interest in them that he feels in racing his horse."

"If he could attack them with as strong a purpose," Sally agreed, absently, with no great interest herself, apparently, "he would succeed, I think. I know that Dick thinks he has ability enough."

Fox made no reply and Sally did not pursue the subject further. They drove to the end of the course in silence. Suddenly Sally began to wave her muff violently.

"Oh, there is Uncle John," she said. "If you will excuse me, I will get out, Cousin Patty. You needn't stop, Edward. Just go slow. I find," she added, turning again to the back seat, "that it is the popular opinion that it is too cold for me to drive longer in comfort, so I am going to leave you, if you don't mind."

"And what if we do mind?" asked Fox; to which question Sally made no reply. She only smiled at him in a way which he found peculiarly exasperating.

"Take good care of father, Sally," said Patty anxiously.

"I will," Sally replied with a cheerful little nod. "Good-bye." And she stepped out easily, leaving Patty, Fox, and her mother. This was an arrangement little to Patty's liking. Doctor Sanderson was in the seat with Mrs. Ladue. To be sure, he might have changed with Patty when Sally got out, but Mrs. Ladue would not have him inconvenienced to that extent. She noted that his eyes followed Sally as she ran and slid and ran again. Mr. Hazen came forward to meet her and she slipped her hand within his arm, and she turned to wave her muff to them. Then Sally and Uncle John walked slowly back, toward the head of the course.

Fox turned to Mrs. Ladue and they smiled at each other. "I guess," Fox remarked, "that she is not changed, after all; except," he added as an afterthought, "that she is more generally cheerful than she used to be, which is a change to be thankful for."

Sally and Uncle John took Dick Torrington home to dinner; and Henrietta very nearly monopolized his attention, as might have been expected. It was late, as the habits of the Hazens went, when they went up to bed, but Henrietta would have Sally come in for a few minutes. She had _so_ many things to say. No, they wouldn't wait. She would have forgotten them by the next day. And Sally laughed and went with Henrietta.

Henrietta's few minutes had lengthened to half an hour and she had not said half the things she had meant to say. She had told Sally how Mr. Spencer--Eugene Spencer, you know--had overtaken them at the head of the course and had accosted Mr. Torrington, challenging him to race.

"Mr. Spencer," continued Henrietta, with a demure glance at Sally, "seemed out of sorts and distinctly cross. I'm sure I don't know why. Do you, Sally?"

Sally looked annoyed. "He is very apt to be, I think," she remarked briefly. "What did Dick do? He said he was not going to race."

"Yes, that's what he told Mr. Spencer, and Mr. Spencer said, in a disagreeable kind of way, 'You promised Sally, I suppose.' And Dick--Mr. Torrington--smiled and his eyes wrinkled. I think he was laughing at Mr. Spencer--at the pet he was in. Don't you, Sally?"

Sally nodded. She thought it very likely.

"And Dick--I must ask Mr. Torrington's pardon, but I hear him spoken of as Dick so often that I forget--Mr. Torrington told him, in his slow, quiet way, that he hadn't exactly promised you; that, in fact, he had warned you that his horse was spirited and somewhat fractious and he might not be able to hold him. He had warned somebody, anyway, and he thought it was you. It wasn't you, at all, Sally. It was I, but I didn't enlighten him."

"I knew, very well, that he would," Sally observed. "So he raced with Jane?"

"With Mr. Spencer," Henrietta corrected. "Do you call him Jane? How funny! And we beat him and he went off in a shocking temper, for Dick laughed at him, but very gently."

"I'm not sure that would not be all the harder for Jane. I suppose you were glad to beat him."

"Why, of course," said Henrietta, in surprise. "Wouldn't you have been?"

Sally was rather sober and serious. "I suppose so. It wouldn't have made any particular difference whether you beat him or not."

Henrietta made no reply to this remark. She was sitting on the bed, pretty and dainty, and was tapping her foot lightly on the floor. She gazed at Sally thoughtfully for a long time. Finally Sally got up to go.

"Sally," Henrietta asked then, smiling, "haven't you ever thought of him--them--any one"--she hesitated and stammered a little--"in that way?" She did not seem to think it necessary to specify more particularly the way she meant. "There are lots of attractive men here. There's Everett Morton and there's Eugene Spencer, though he's almost too near your own age; but anybody can see that he's perfectly dippy over you. And--"

"And there, too," Sally interrupted, "are the Carlings, Harry and Horry, neither of whom you have seen because they happen to be in college. The last time they came home, Harry was wearing a mustache and Horry side-whiskers, so that it would be easy to tell them apart. The only trouble with that device was that I forgot which was which. And there is Ollie Pilcher, and there is--oh, the place is perfectly boiling with men--if it is men that you are looking for."

Henrietta gave a little ripple of laughter. "You are too funny, Sally. Of course I am looking for men--or for a man. Girls of our age are always looking for them, whether we know it or not--deep down in our hearts. Remember Margaret Savage? Well, she seems to be looking for Fox, and I shouldn't wonder if he succumbed, in time. She is very pretty."

There was a look of resentment in Sally's eyes, but she made no remark.

"And I have not finished my list," Henrietta went on. "I can only include the men I have seen to-day. To end the list, there is Dick Torrington. Haven't you--haven't you thought--"

Sally flushed slowly; but she smiled and shook her head. "You see, Henrietta," she said apologetically, "I have my teaching to think of--"

"Oh, bosh!" cried Henrietta, smiling.

"Fox knows," Sally continued, defensively, "and you can't have wholly forgotten, Henrietta."

"Bosh, Sally!" said Henrietta again.