This excitement, combined with the flourishing of the whip, was more than Jerry could stand. With lowered head, he sped along the street, leaving a huge cloud of dust in his wake. Abner had just time to leap and seize the end of the express as it dashed by, and to pull himself partly aboard. He sprawled across the tailboard, holding on by his elbows, and balancing himself upon his stomach, with his feet beating a tattoo upon the ground. He tried to clutch at something, but the rattle of the waggon, and the steady rain of blows upon his head and shoulders, prevented him from making any progress. And there he hung, speechless and helpless.
The people on the main street of Glucom were greatly excited at the strange spectacle they beheld. They could only stand and stare, unable to do anything. But one of the few policemen of which the town boasted happened to be coming along that very moment, and sprang into the middle of the street to intercept what he believed was a runaway horse. The driver saw him and, with considerable difficulty, reined up Jerry by his side.
"Arrest that man," she ordered, turning around and pointing to Abner, who had just tumbled off the waggon.
"Arrest her," Abner shouted, struggling unsteadily to his feet.
"Why, what's the meaning of all this, Mr. Andrews?" the policeman enquired.
"She stole my hoss an' waggon, an' beat me black an' blue; that's what's the matter."
A startled expression suddenly overspread Belle Rivers' face, and she dropped the reins upon her lap.
"Mr. Andrews!" It was all she could say, as her eyes swiftly scanned Abner's unshaven face, rough, dust-covered clothes, and coarse unblackened boots.
"Yes, it's Abner Andrews, of Ash Pint," he chuckled, noting the girl's embarrassment.
"But I didn't know, that is, I didn't expect——" the girl stammered.