Before the horse could make much headway, the aeroplane was racing down the “stretch” once more—this time even nearer the ground. As the whirr of the engine struck on the horse’s ears and the wide white planes of the car filled the width of the track just above, the horse reared, lunged forward, and the aeroplane had passed once more.
“Hello,” rang out from the aeroplane at once. “Want me, Mr. Stockwell?”
There was a mutter of enraged words in the buggy, and then, the crowd, alarmed at the horse’s actions, fell back in confusion. With a quick command, the lawyer spoke to his companion, and, with a glance at the aeroplane, already on the far side of the race-track on its next round, the frightened horse was forced through the crowd toward the head of the “stretch” down which the flying-machine would come on its next lap.
The turn was reached just before Bud arrived from the opposite direction.
“Now, Pusey,” exclaimed the lawyer, grabbing the lines and whirling the horse about, “get on the seat and serve him ef you can. Get your writ ready. Ef he comes clost enough, grab him and hold on. I’ll take care of the horse.”
Attorney Stockwell, whip in hand, headed the rearing animal down the track, yelling to the crowd to get out of the way. The massed people saw what was coming. Between the low-flying aeroplane and the galloping horse, a second injunction was not needed. As the track opened up before the snorting animal, already on a dead run, with its ears laid back, Deputy Pusey sprang to the seat of the buggy, and began to wave his writ.
Bud understood the situation as well as if it had been explained to him. A provoking smile came on his face, and with a reckless daring he headed the car straight at the deputy’s head. Down the stretch together, came the foaming, galloping horse and the swiftly moving aeroplane. Holding with one hand to Attorney Stockwell’s shoulder, the deputy sheriff—he had already lost his official hat—waved his writ and yelled:
“Hey, there, Bud Wilson, [in the name of the law, Stop!]”