“You're a funny boy,” said the girl, eyeing him furiously. “You're—you're not at all like Pete—or these other boys about Scoville.”
“And that Pete Dickerson isn't any good at all! I shall tell daddy all about how he touched up that horse and made him run. Here he comes now!”
They had been walking steadily along the road toward the Atterson house, and in the direction the runaway had taken. Pete Dickerson appeared, riding one of the bays and leading the one that had been frightened.
The latter was all of a lather, was blowing hard, and before the horses reached them, Hiram saw that the runaway was in bad shape.
“Hold on!” he cried to the lout. “Breathe that horse a while. Let him stand. He ought to be rubbed down, too. Don't you see the shape he is in?”
“Aw, what's eatin' you?” demanded Pete, eyeing the speaker with much disfavor.
The horse, when he stopped, was trembling all over. His nostrils were dilated and as red as blood, and strings of foam were dripping from his bit.
“Don't let him stand there in the shade,” spoke Hiram, more “mildly. He'll take a chill. Here! let me have him.”
He approached the still frightened horse, and Pete jerked the bridle-rein. The horse started back and snorted.
“Stand 'round there, ye 'tarnal nuisance!” exclaimed Pete.