The Perils of Pauline Part 42

Engrossed in the business complications growing out of the European conflict, Harry had quite forgotten Firefly and the steeplechase when the day of the great Jericho handicap arrived.

He was in the library reading a letter when there burst upon his sight through the open doorway a vision that took his breath away.

Pauline, in full jockey uniform, white and blue and yellow, was pirouetting on her gleaming black boots before him.

"Polly!" he cried, unable to grasp the meaning of the prank. "Have you cut off your hair?" he added in alarm.

"No; here it is," she laughed, snapping off her visored cap and revealing ma.s.ses of hair.

"Oh, don't do it," he begged. "Look! Here's a letter from the McCallans asking us to their house party in the Adirondacks. We're expected tomorrow. Let's go there instead."

He handed her the letter. Without glancing at it she flicked it into the air with her riding crop and danced out of her room..

"So I surrender again," he murmured, laughing in spite of himself.

Riding out toward the starting line, Pauline swerved her course a little to avoid the gaze of the gentlemen riders who eyed her curiously. She heard a call from an automobile beside the track and rode, over to where Harry and Owen were seated in the car.

Their lifted hats as, she bent to shake hands with them caused the crowd to stare in astonishment. Pauline, blus.h.i.+ng furiously, sped Firefly to the line.

"That horse works queer," commented Harry, as she rode away.

"Do you think so?" asked Owen.

"Yes, it's on edge, but its legs are shaky. I wonder..."

But the riders were ready. The signal sounded. The crowd's cheer rose in the names of their various favorites. Field-gla.s.ses were unbuckled.

"By jolly, Firefly took the first jump in the lead," cried Harry, a thrill of admiration lightening the worry in his heart.

"He's all right," said Owen.

Over the wide green the horses began to string out, with Firefly ahead.

"She's going to win it; I believe she is," exclaimed Harry excitedly as he and Owen stood in the automobile. "No--no; he wobbled at the fourth jump. He's losing ground."

But Firefly seemed suddenly to grip his strength as one horse pa.s.sed him. He pulled himself together under Pauline's urging. He regained the lead.

They came down splendidly toward the homestretch. The bodies of the powerful beasts rose one by one over the last hedge.

"They're over! They've won--or, heaven help her! They're down!"

Leading at the last jump, the drugged heart of the great horse had conquered his courage. As he stumbled heavily, Pauline shot over his head and lay helpless in the path of the other riders.

Harry, das.h.i.+ng madly toward the track, but hopelessly far from her, had to turn away his head as the cras.h.i.+ng hoofs pa.s.sed her. When he looked again, attendants were carrying her swiftly to the clubhouse. He sped toward it, Owen following.

Harry tore his way through the excited crowd to the side of Pauline. A doctor was administering restoratives. Pauline opened her eyes and looked about her bewildered. She saw Harry's anxious face and smiled penitently.

"I've--learned a lesson this time," she whispered.

"It is nothing serious--her shoulder bruised a little," said the doctor.

"Thank Heaven!" breathed Raymond Owen with well feigned emotion.

CHAPTER XIX

OWEN OFFERS A REWARD

Cries of delight coming, in the voice of Pauline, from the direction of the garage made Harry lay down his newspaper and go forth to investigate.

As he approached he saw Bemis and Lucille's coachman lifting a crate from a carriage. From within the crate came the whimpering barks of an imprisoned bull terrier.

"Oh, isn't he dear?" cried Pauline turning to Harry.

"I don't know, I haven't yet made his acquaintance. Where did he come from?"

"Lucille sent him to me. Johnson just brought him over. Hurry, Bemis, and let him out. The poor darling!"

"Is that what is called puppy love?" inquired Harry.

"Hush," commanded Pauline. "And Bemis, run and tell Martha to cook something for him--a beefsteak and potatoes."

"And oysters on the half sh.e.l.l," suggested Harry.

"Love me," announced Pauline sternly, "love my dog."

The coachman had ripped of the last top bar of the crate and a splendid terrier sprang out with a suddenness that made Pauline retreat a little. But, as if he had been trained to his part, he bent his head, and, with wagging tail, approached her. In an instant she was kneeling beside him rewarding his homage with enthusiastic pats and fantastic encomiums.

"Why, he likes me already--isn't he charming?" she demanded.

Harry threw up his hands-- "And this for a dog--a new dog--possibly a mad dog!"

"You are a brute."

The dog was making rapid acquaintance with his new home, investigating the garage and, more profoundly, the kitchen, door.

"Here, Cyrus, come Cyrus," called Pauline, and started towards the house. Owen, in his motorcycle togs, was lighting a cigar on the veranda when they came up the steps. Without even pretending to enter into Pauline's enthusiasm over the terrier, he excused himself and walked off briskly in the direction of the garage. A few minutes later they saw him on the motorcycle speeding down the drive.

"I wonder what the impressive business is today," remarked Harry sarcastically.

"Let poor Owen alone. He is good and kind even if he doesn't care for Cyrus."

"Look here! Why don't you ever say any of these nice things to me-- the things, you say to dogs--and secretaries?"

"Because I've promised to marry you--some day--and it is fatal to let a husband--even a futurity husband--know that you admire him."