"I wouldn't
risk my neck that way."
Suddenly somebody batted a determined tennis ball from far down the
nearest court. It whizzed over the back stop, and--bang!--hit the
grey pony on the nose.
Rhoda had not been a bad prophet. The pony with the rolling eye
leaped and snorted, all four feet in the air at once, and just as
crazy in an instant as ever a horse could be.
But perhaps a much better trained and better-tempered animal would
have done the same. She jerked the loop of her bridle-rein off
Prince's saddlehorn in that first jump. Then she was away like the
wind, her little hoofs spurning the gravel of the path that crossed
the school's athletic field and led to the broad steps that led
down the face of the cliff to the boathouse and cove.
Mad as the pony was, she might have cast herself down the steep
flight. Frightened animals have done such things upon less
provocation.
The girls screamed, and that only lent wings to the grey's flying
hoofs. But the horror and wild despair of the group at the edge of
the field were not caused by the mere running away of the grey
pony.
The mad creature was headed for the brink of the cliff; but between
the pony and that side of the field was a group of the smaller
girls at play. There were almost thirty of the little girls of the
Hall engaged in a game of tag, and utterly oblivious to the
drumming hoofs of the pony!
The girls did not instantly see the pony coming.
Pages:
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73