“Yes; he must be halfway up to Harlem by this time.”
Matt waited to hear no more, but boarded the first horse-car which came along bound north. He took a position on the front platform, and as they moved along kept his eyes open for a sight of the animal in which he owned a half-interest.
Ten blocks had been passed, and the boy was beginning to grow anxious, when, chancing to look over the fence of a small yard adjoining a blacksmith shop, he saw a horse standing tied to a post. A second look convinced him that it was Billy, and he at once leaped from the moving car and hurried toward the place.
“Well, sir, what can I do for you?” asked the blacksmith, a tall, heavy-set fellow, as he left his bellows, where he had been blowing up the fire.
“I’ll take my horse, please,” returned Matt.
“Your horse? Which horse is that?”
“The runaway you just caught.”
“I haven’t any runaway,” returned the blacksmith boldly.
“What?” cried the boy in amazement. “Why, of course you have. He is tied to the post in the yard.”