Rod Sherrett was out too, from Roxeter, Young-Americafying with his tandem; trying, to-day, one of his father’s horses with his own Red Squirrel, to make out the team; for which, if he should come to any grief, Rodgers, the coachman, would have to bear responsibility for being persuaded to let Duke out in such manner.

Just as Sylvie Argenter drew up her pony at the baker’s door, Rod Sherrett came spinning round the corner in grand style.  But Duke was not used to tandem harness, and Red Squirrel, put ahead, took flying side-leaps now and then on his own account; and Duke, between his comrade’s escapades and his driver’s checks and admonitions, was to that degree perplexed in his mind and excited off his well-bred balance, that he was by this time becoming scarcely more reliable in the shafts.  Rod found he had his hands full.  He found this out, however, only just in time to realize it, as they were suddenly relieved and emptied of their charge; for, before his call and the touch of his long whip could bring back Red Squirrel into line at this turn, he had sprung so far to the left as to bring Duke and the “trap” down upon the little phaeton.  There was a lock and a crash; a wheel was off the phaeton, the tandem was overturned, Sylvie Argenter, in the act of alighting, was thrown forward over the threshold of the open shop-door, Rod Sherrett was lying in the road, a man had seized the pony, and Duke and Red Squirrel were shattering away through the scared Corner Village, with the wreck at their heels.

Sylvie’s arm was bruised, and her dress torn; that was all.  She felt a little jarred and dizzy at first, when Mr. Ingraham lifted her up, and Rodney Sherrett, picking himself out of the dust with a shake and a stamp, found his own bones unbroken, and hurried over to ask anxiously—­for he was a kind-hearted fellow—­how much harm he had done, and to express his vehement regret at the “horrid spill.”

Rod Sherrett and Sylvie Argenter had danced together at the Roxeter Assemblies, and the little Dorbury “Germans;” they had boated, and picknicked, and skated in company, but to be tumbled together into a baker’s shop, torn and frightened, and dusty,—­each feeling, also, in a great scrape,—­this was an odd and startling partnership.  Sylvie was pale; Rod was sorry; both were very much demolished as to dress:  Sylvie’s hat had got a queer crush, and a tip that was never intended over her eyes; Rodney’s was lying in the street, and his hair was rumpled and curiously powdered.  When they had stood and looked at each other an instant after the first inquiry and reply, they both laughed.  Then Rodney shrugged his shoulders, and walked over and picked up his hat.

“It might have been worse,” he said, coming back, as Mr. Ingraham and the man who had held Sylvie’s pony took the latter out of the shafts and led him to a post to fasten him, and then proceeded together, as well as they could, to lift the disabled phaeton and roll it over to the blacksmith’s shop to be set right.