He sat down to finish his lunch. He had just raised a bit of home-made berry pie to his mouth, when a clatter on the Westville turnpike startled him.
"My gracious! a runaway!" cried old Bob Sanderson.
Ralph leaped to his feet, and saw that his old helper was right. There, tearing along the road that led from the village center was an elegant team of black horses, attached to a large open carriage.
"It's Mrs. Carrington's team!" cried Pickley. "And blame me if the old lady and her daughter ain't in the carriage!"
"The team is coming this way!" put in Bob Sanderson. "I wonder if we can't stop them?"
"Not much!" roared Pickley. "Get out of the way, or you'll be knocked down and killed!"
Sanderson was too old a man to attempt to subdue the fiery steeds, and he quickly followed Pickley out of harm's way.
In the meantime Ralph stood undecided as to what to do. Should he run forward, and try to bring the horses to a standstill before the bridge was reached?
"It won't do," he muttered, half-aloud. "I might miss them, and then——"
He thought no further, but with a bound, sprang to the capstan bar, and with might and main strove to swing the heavy bridge around into place, thus closing the draw.