The steed was coming like the whirlwind. The clamp of his hoofs, his snorting nostrils, his flying mane, and dangling reins, the frail vehicle bounding from side to side and often on the point of overturning, the glimpses of the lady bravely holding on and uttering no scream,--all these made up the most startling picture on which Tom Gordon had looked for many a day.
Stationing himself in the middle of the road, he swung his hat and arms, and shouted to the mad animal in the hope of making him slacken his speed sufficiently to allow the occupant to leap out. The horse saw him, shied a little, moderated his pace a trifle, and then plunged forward on a run.
Clearly he was not to be checked by that means. Tom Gordon braced himself for the shock of the supreme effort he had formed.
In a twinkling his strong grip had closed about the strap of the bit, and he threw his whole weight against the brute, who reared, plunged, struggled, struck with his fore feet, and strove to shake the incubus loose, but in vain. Tom held on like grim death, though in imminent danger of being struck down and trampled upon. No animal is quicker to recognize the hand of a master than a horse, and in less time than would be supposed possible the mad runaway was under control.
Then a gentle patting, a few soothing words, and he became more quiet, though still trembling in every nerve.
"I hope, Miss Warmore, you have not been injured."
"Not in the least, thanks to your bravery," replied the young lady, displaying wonderful coolness. "I have had a pretty rapid ride and a bad shock, but that is all."
Tom had caught up the reins and held them in hand, while he stood at the side of the vehicle near the daughter of his employer.
"Perhaps, Miss Warmore, it will be safer for me to drive home with you. The horse is nervous and liable to take fright again."
"I can never thank you sufficiently for what you have already done," she said with emotion, moving to one side to make room for him.