On came the terrified horses, and Gene braced himself for the effort that was to land him in the halls of fame—or in a cemetery.
The latter thought came upon him with appalling force as he saw those mad horses almost within reach. Their eyes were glaring, their teeth were set on the bits, their lips flung great flecks of foam, and the muscular play of their thrashing legs, bounding bodies, and shod hoofs, beating fire from the flinty stones, was enough to shake the nerve of a would-be hero. The power of their mad rush was something against which it seemed that no frail human arm could avail.
The thought of fame had led Gene to halt there; but now the thought of something quite different got hold of him. He saw himself hurled to the stones with broken bones, maimed for life, perhaps. If he lived, he would hobble through life a miserable cripple. But he might be killed! It would be a glorious thing to die the death of a hero, but even that was not quite enough inducement.
Thus it happened that, at the last minute, Skelding made a backward spring and a scramble to get out of the way, not even lifting his hand to try to stop the horses.
At another time his haste might have seemed comical and caused the spectators to roar with laughter; but just now the peril of the helpless women in the carriage prevented any one from laughing.
But another Yale man has rushed out into the street and prepared to make an attempt to check those horses. As they approach, he runs in the same direction they are going. They come up beside him, and he swerves in toward them at exactly the right moment, having watched their approach over his shoulder. Then he leaps at their heads, gets them firmly by the bridles, and holds fast with a grip that nothing can break.
The crowd looks on in breathless anxiety and admiration. All had expected to see this beardless youth flung down and trampled as the policeman had been trampled, but nothing of the kind occurs.
What wonderful strength he must have, for he has checked the mad rush of the horses at once! Though they plunge and rear, he holds them fast and sets them back with a surge of his arm, which seems to have muscles of steel. They do not carry him half a block before he had brought them to a stand and holds them there, his jaw squared, his cheeks flushed a bit, but his broad chest scarcely seeming to rise and fall with more than usual rapidity. It is the deed of a man of wonderful nerve, skill, and strength.
“Who is he?” some ask.
“Why, it’s Merriwell!” others reply, as if all should know him.