From The Gaffs to Westmoreland, the home of Alice Westmore, was
barely two miles up the level white pike.

Jim sat in the buggy at The Gaffs holding the horses while Richard
Travis, having eaten his supper, was lighting a cigar and drawing on
his overcoat, preparatory to riding over to Westmoreland.

The trotters stood at the door tossing their heads and eager to be
off. They were cherry bays and so much alike that even Jim sometimes
got them mixed. They were clean-limbed and racy looking, with flanks
well drawn up, but with a broad bunch of powerful muscles which
rolled from hip to back, making a sturdy back for the splendid full
tails which almost touched the ground. In front they stood up
straight, deep-chested, with clean bony heads, large luminous eyes
and long slender ears, tapering into a point as velvety and soft as
the tendril-bud on the tip of a Virginia creeper.

They stood shifting the bits nervously. The night air was cool and
they wanted to go.

Travis came out and sprang from the porch to the buggy seat with the
quick, sure footing of an athlete. Jim sat on the offside and passed
him the lines just as he sang cheerily out:

"Heigh-ho--my honies--go!"

The two mares bounded away so quickly and keenly that the near mare
struck her quarters and jumped up into the air, running. Her off mate
settled to work, trotting as steadily as a bolting Caribou, but
pulling viciously.

Travis twisted the near bit with a deft turn of his left wrist, and
as the two mares settled to their strides there was but one stroke
from their shoes, so evenly and in unison did they trot. Down the
level road they flew, Travis sitting gracefully upright and holding
the lines in that sure, yet careless way which comes to the expert
driver with power in his arms.

"How many times must I tell you, Jim," he said at last rather
gruffly--"never to bring them out, even for the road, without their
boots? Didn't you see Lizette grab her quarters and fly up just now?"

Jim was duly penitent.

Travis let them out a link. They flew down a soft, cool graveled
stretch. He drew them in at the sound of an ominous click. It came
from Sadie B.

"Sadie B.'s forging again. Didn't I tell you to have the blacksmith
move her hind shoes back a little?"

"I did, sir," said Jim.

"You've got no weight on her front feet, then," said Travis
critically.

"Not to-night, sir--I took off the two ounces thinking you'd not
speed them to-night, si