If any among that throng had reason to send up a silent prayer for the safety of that daring lad just then, surely he might. For the man in the buggy was Doctor Alan Morrison, Paul's own father!
Five seconds passed, but it seemed an hour, a day, a life-time to that man, as his heart ceased to beat, and he gripped the reins convulsively in his clenched hands.
Then the heavens seemed to almost split with the sudden outburst of wild shouts that raced up and down that street.
"He's done it! Hurrah! The boy's stopped him! Bully for Paul Morrison!"
Men shouted, boys shrieked, while women embraced in their tears. The tense strain was over, for willing hands had clutched the lines after Paul's weight had brought the wild runaway to a staggering halt; and the danger was past.
Then ensued a wild scene, everybody trying to get hold of the boy who had known what to do in an emergency, and not only that, but had done it.
Confused, overwhelmed, Paul in the great confusion tried to flee; but while he did manage to duck under many of the hands outstretched to clutch him, it was only to dart into the arms of some one who pressed him to his heart.
And looking up the boy saw above him the face of one whom he loved—his father, who had been a witness to his adventure.
"That was well done, my boy; and I'm glad I saw it!" was all the good doctor said; but Paul never forgot the proud look that accompanied the words.
It would return to him many times in the distant future, when he might be tempted by the fascinations of the world to turn aside from the narrow path which he had chosen to tread; and must ever be a guide and beacon for his footsteps.