Ben slowly took off his cap, slapped it against his knee to shake off the dust, and put it back upon his head.  The action took only a half minute, but when the girl looked at him again it hardly seemed he was the same boy with whom she had just played.  His eyes were no longer blue, but gray.  The chin, too, with an odd trick,—­one she was destined to know better in future,—­had protruded, had become the dominant feature of his face, aggressive, almost menacing.  Except for the size, one looking could scarcely have believed Ben’s visage was that of a child.

“What,” the boy’s hands went back into his pockets, “what wouldn’t anyone do, then?” he asked directly.

At that moment Florence Baker would have been glad to occupy some other person’s shoes.  Obviously, the proper thing for her to do was to admit her fault and clear the atmosphere, but that did not accord with her disposition, and she looked about for a suggestion.  One came promptly, but at first she did not speak.  Then the brown head tossed again.

“Some folks would be afraid to ride one of those colts out there!” She indicated the pasture near by.  “Papa said the other day he’d rather not be the first to try.”

The colts mentioned were a bunch of four-year-olds that Scotty had just imported from an Eastern breeder.  They were absolutely unbroken, but every ounce thoroughbreds, and full to the ear-tips of what the Englishman expressively termed “ginger.”

To her credit be it said, the small Florence had no idea that her challenge would be accepted.  Implicit trust in her father was one of her virtues, and the mere suggestion that another would attempt to do what he would not, was rankest heresy.  But the boy Benjamin started for the barn, and, securing a bridle and a pan of oats, moved toward the gate.  Instinctively Florence took a step after him.

“Really, I didn’t mean for you to try,” she explained in swift penitence.  “I don’t think you’re afraid!”

Ben opened and closed the gate silently.

“Please don’t do it,” pleaded the girl.  “You’ll be hurt!”

But for all the effect her petition had, she might as well have asked the sun to cease shining.  Nothing could stop that gray-eyed boy.  Without a show of haste he advanced toward the nearest colt, shook the oats in the pan, and whistled enticingly.  Full often in his short life he had seen the trick done before, and he waited expectantly.

Florence, forgetting her fears, watched with interest.  At first the colt was shy, but gradually, under stimulus of its appetite, it drew nearer, then ran frisking away, again drew near.  Ben held out the pan, shook it at intervals, displaying its contents to the best advantage.  Colt nature could not resist the appeal.  The sleek thoroughbred cast aside all scruples, came close, and thrust a silken muzzle deep into the grain.