When about half a mile out of town he overtook a boy walking in a foot-path by the side of the turnpike.
“Hello, Phœnix!” cried Phil; “what are you doing here?”
“Going home,” said Phœnix.
“But why are you walking?” asked Phil, as he rode slowly by the side of his sturdy friend.
“Well,” said Phœnix, “the old man was awful mad when he saw Selim. Chap and I did think of driving the horse into the river, so that he’d get wet even all over; but then there wasn’t any good reason for giving him a wash, and Chap and I thought it might hurt him to drive him in when he was so hot.”
“It would have killed him, sure!” exclaimed Phil.
“That’s what Chap and I thought,” said Phœnix, “and we didn’t do it.”
“So your father was mad, was he?” said Phil.
“Mad is no word for it,” replied his friend. “He just blazed; and when he got through he told me that, as I had had such an extra good time riding into town, I might walk home. Chap wanted to walk with me, but he wouldn’t let him. But I tell you one thing, I’d a great sight rather walk home than ride with the old man to-day.”
“I’ll take you up behind me,” said Phil, “if you say so. I don’t believe Jouncer will mind it.”