The man’s eyes glanced from side to side, as though he were planning to jump. But at the fearful rate at which he was going, a leap would almost certainly have meant broken bones or a broken neck. He seemed to abandon the thought, and put the last remnant of his overtaxed strength in one more frantic tug at the reins.
A little way up the road, coming in his direction, were three young men. They had evidently been on a fishing excursion, as was attested by their rods and a big string of finny trophies. They were laughing and chaffing each other, and evidently on the best of terms with themselves and with life.
The thunder of approaching hoofs made itself heard, and they looked at each other questioningly.
“That fellow seems to be in a hurry,” remarked Phil Strong.
“He sure does,” returned Dick Weston. “Mazeppa or Paul Revere had nothing on him.”
“Just burning up the road and breaking all speed laws,” commented Tom Hadley, the third of the trio.
They turned a bend in the road just then, and broke into exclamations of alarm, as they saw the horse tearing toward them.
“The man will be killed,” shouted Tom, as they instinctively jumped to the side of the road, which at this point was comparatively narrow, bordered on one side by trees and on the other by underbrush, back of which a little brook purled along.
On came the frenzied brute, yielding not a particle to the strain on the reins.
Just as he came within ten feet of the group, Phil stiffened himself for a spring. The next instant he had launched himself in the air at the horse’s bridle. His aim was good, and his right hand clenched the leather while his left gripped the mane.