d the threatening shower.
Yankee and Dood did nobly; abandoning their canter, they galloped on,
neck and neck, while their riders carried on a panting sort of
conversation concerning the new turn of things, and the prospects of
reaching home before dark.

"What mat--ter if--we don't?" said Dorry, her voice almost lost in the
rumbling thunder; "Yankee--and Dood--can find--the way--if it's--pitch
dark."

"But, Uncle--ex-pected--us by--"

"Well--he'll know--what keeps--us."

"Plucky girl!" thought Don, admiring her bright cheeks and graceful air
as she at that moment dashed by.

Yankee, on principle, never let Dood beat him. In the commotion of the
thunder and lightning, it seemed to Donald that a livelier race had
begun; but, the next instant he realized that Dorry's pony had halted,
and his own was some paces ahead.

Turning at Dorry's call, he saw that something was the matter. Dood
limped painfully for a few steps, then stopped.

"He's hurt his foot," cried Dorry. "It wasn't a stumble; he tripped.
Poor Dood!" she added, as the pony's head turned pitifully toward her,
"you must go on now."

Dood tried, but it was slow work. He grew lamer at every step. Don,
noticing that one of the pony's fore-shoes was loose, dismounted and
tried to take it off, but it would not come. A turn in the road
disclosed Vanbogen's not far away. By this time, slanting lines of rain
showed against the trees.

"It's going to storm in earnest, Dot; you'll get soaking wet!" said Don.

"Not I," chirped Dorry. "My riding-habit is water-proof. You'll be the
wet one. Hurry ahead, Don. Dood and I will be there as soon as we can. I
do hope he isn't hurt seriously. Oh, Don, do hurry!"

But Don wouldn't and Dood couldn't. If the shower had not paused to
take breath before making its grand dash, they certainly would have been
drenched.

As it was, they hardly had dismounted at the inn before the rain came
down in torrents.

"Dear me!" said Dorry, shaking her riding-skirt, as she sprang into the
bare hall, "our saddles will get soaked!" But a negro, in a blue-checked
jacket, already was leading the steeds to shelter.

It was a very shabby house at the best of times, but it was particularly
dreary now. Dorry was sure she never before had seen anything so dismal
as the damp little parlor into which Donald escorted her. The closed
blinds, the mouldy, bumpy sofa, the faded-green table-cover, the stained
matting, the low-spirited rocking-chair