The Mystery of the Castaway Children

fences, and meadow corners without weeds—all these things reflected Regan’s love of animals, and Matthew Wheeler’s good sense in hiring Regan.
    “I knew that was no keg shoe,” Regan went on. “What’s that?” Trixie wanted to know.
    “A factory-made iron plate ordered by blacksmiths in bulk in kegs. An ordinary riding hack can use them with no trouble if he doesn’t have foot problems. Now, a race animal would have been wearing aluminum plates so thin they’d only be good for one race.”
    “The shoe wasn’t that thin,” Trixie said.
    “I agree,” Regan said. “And it didn’t belong to a walking horse. They sometimes carry into the show ring as much as thirty-six ounces on each foot.”
    Trixie shook her head. “It wasn’t that heavy.”
    “There you go,” Regan said. “It was simply a matter of elimination, shoe by shoe, to realize it had to belong to a Shetland.”
    “You mean, Sergeant Molinson doesn’t know the shoe belongs to a Shetland?”
    “No. Like I said, after he left, I was thinking about it. So I came in and checked our work records to see if we’d replaced a shoe for Mr. Pony while he was here. We hadn’t. Nobody else I know of owns a Shetland. That pony has to be a transient.”
    “Oh, Honey, Davy Dodge owns a pony,” Trixie bubbled.
    “Which may have been auctioned,” Honey argued. “Besides, how do we know someone didn’t kidnap the pony along with the children? On the other hand, some other pony could have come down the path—not Wicky, and not Mr. Pony.”
    Regan looked thoughtful. “I’ll tell you this— that Shetland belonged to somebody with money enough to take care of him and love enough to notice his particular need.”
    “There wasn’t much money left at the Dodge farm, but there was certainly lots of love,” Trixie declared. “If Davy owned a pony, his dad would take care of it.”
    “What does love have to do with it?” Honey asked.
    “Like I said, this shoe wasn’t factory made,” explained Regan. “This fellow wore a corrective shoe. He toes in.”
    “You mean he looks kind of pigeon-toed?” Trixie asked.
    Regan nodded. “Especially when he’s barefoot.”
    “What if nobody had him reshod after he lost that shoe?” asked kindhearted Honey.
    “They can take off the rest of the shoes. We let our horses go barefoot several weeks out of the year, you know. It keeps their frogs and horns in good condition.” Regan glanced at his watch. “Got to go. Doc’s coming to check teeth this morning. Jupe may have to have his teeth floated.”
    “Floated?” Trixie repeated. That horns and frogs were parts of the hoof, she knew. But what on earth was there in a horse’s mouth that floated?
    “His teeth might have to be filed down to an even level to help him grind his food,” Regan explained.
    “Not drilling!” Trixie cupped her own jaw in vivid recollection of her most recent trip to the dentist.
    “More like cleaning,” Regan said cheerfully as he disappeared into the barn.
    Trixie helped Honey put the scrap back into the bin, then straightened and swiped a rusty hand across her damp forehead. It was such a hot day that the air danced.
    “I’ve got a superdooper idea,” she announced. “Let’s go for a swim instead of taking a bath!” Luscious! agreed Honey. “I’ll have to dig out an extra suit for you.”
    Let s just swim in our clothes,” suggested Trixie. We’d be dry by the time we got to my house. You can have lunch with me. We’ll take care of Dodgy this afternoon and let his mother rest.”
    “Terrific,” Honey chirped. “You can borrow one of our bicycles.”
    The girls coasted most of the way down the well-beaten path to the lake. Within sight of the boathouse, Trixie noticed the blurred remains of hoofprints. “Have you ridden here since the rain?” she asked.
    “No, I’ve been exercising Lady in the meadow,” answered Honey.
    “That reminds me,” Trixie groaned. “I haven’t exercised Susie in ages.”
    “Nothing’s more important than taking care of Dodgy and finding Davy,” her friend reassured her.
    “Thanks for not saying ‘trying to find,’ ” Trixie said soberly.
    “You’ll find him. You always do,’ Honey told her.
    “We always do,” Trixie corrected. Just then, she saw a fairly deep print on the side of the path. “I wish we had that horseshoe,” she fretted. “That print looks like the right size.”
    All thoughts of horseshoes and kidnappers were temporarily shelved when