Deprived thus of his “balancing poles,” a quick flirt of the pony to one side would have flung him into the water, but ’Ceph, if he was aware of it (and it would seem he ought to have been), did not seize the chance.
Half the distance was passed and the dangling stirrups dipped. Would the good fortune continue all the way across?
It did. The stream shallowed, and increasing his pace, the pony stepped out on the other bank, with the moisture dripping from his fetlocks. Only the lower part of his body, however, had been wetted. Alden himself was dry even to the soles of his shoes.
“Thank fortune!” he exclaimed; “I hope we shall have the same luck at the next stream. Now we’re off again, old fellow.”
As nearly as the rider could judge, he had ridden half the distance to the next station. If he were right, seven or eight miles remained to be traversed. He was doing well but why did not ’Ceph “let himself out,” when the ground was favorable? He still walked, though ever stepping rapidly, with head dipping with each fall of the hoof.
For the first time, Alden broke the rule which had governed him heretofore: he spoke
