the fences, even the blades of grass, seemed all to whisper her name — Judy — Judy!
He remembered with a peculiar sense of thankfulness that he had spent an hour that very day in putting his wheel in condition. He had cleaned it, and oiled it, and pumped it, and every screw had been made tight and fast. And now, with head well forward and feet firmly working, he braced himself for his quick and noiseless flight. Almost unconsciously to himself he began to calculate the time he was making how long it would take to reach the doctor, the delay there, the return. An hour should accomplish it all and find him back with her again. What gratitude he felt for this sure, silent steed he was riding! No loss of time in saddling and bridling! A horse was all very good when one had time, but not even Annie with all her speed could equal this quiet, swift carrier that had supplanted her. A sense of exultation mingled with his anxiety for Judy, as he realised how quickly he could bring aid to her. His hand resting easily on the bars, his body inclining farther and farther forward, his speed increased at every revolution. It seemed to him that wings could not have borne him faster. A mile! Another quarter! He knew every inch of the way. Another half! Here was Annie's pasture! How he was going it! How Annie would prick up her ears if she could see his pace! And then—snap! A sound like the report of a pistol and Kit's steed had failed him. Too tightly pumped for his mad haste, a tire had exploded. He was on his feet in a flash and studying the situation. He looked at the flattened, useless wheel—he thought of Judy's plight, and for one weak moment all his strength forsook him. Down on his face he threw himself in an abandonment of suffering, and in one long, loud sob cried out his anguish:
"Oh, Judy! Poor, poor little Judy!"
