"I ought to know how to handle horses," was the answer, as the youth relinquished the reins to the officer. "I've been among 'em all my life. I was brought up on a farm."
He looked it, but there was something in his simple, manly face, and in the look of his honest blue eyes, that made one like him.
"Good work, all right!" repeated the first officer. "I'll take your name, young fellow, for my report," and he drew out a notebook. "I'll also want to find out to whom the horse belongs, but I s'pose the truckman's license number will be a clue."
"He's mine," broke in a voice, as a drayman pushed his way through the crowd. "Some boys got to fooling around him, and he started off. No damage done, I hope."
"No," replied the policeman, "but you want to tie your animal after this. He might have hurt someone—probably would have if it hadn't been for this chap. What's your name?" he asked the young farmer.
"Sandy Apgar."
"And where do you live?"
"On Oak Farm."
"Never heard of the place," went on the officer, with a smile.
"Oh, that's the name of our farm. It's jest outside the town of Beatonville, about forty miles back in Jersey."