Following his original plan, even though he saw no need of going to the rescue, Joe leaped from his seat. His steed, he knew, would stand without hitching. He approached the stranger.
“A bad break,” murmured Joe sympathetically.
“Indeed it is, young man,” replied the other in quick, tense accents. “And it comes at a particularly bad time, too.”
Joe looked at him. The man seemed about thirty-five, and his face, though stern, was pleasant, as though in the company of his friends he could be very jolly. He was of dark complexion, and there was that in the set of his figure, and his poise, as he stood at the head of the horse, that at once proclaimed him an athlete, at least if not one in active training, one who could get into condition quickly.
“A bad break, and at a bad time, too,” the man went on. “I never knew it to fail, when I was in a hurry.”
“I guess that wheel is past fixing,” spoke Joe. “You might get one at the barn here,” and he nodded toward a farmhouse not far distant.
“I haven’t time to make the try,” said the man. “I’m in a great hurry. How far is it from here to Preston?”
“About five miles,” replied Joe.
“Hum! I never could make that in time to catch the train for New York, though I might have run it at one time. A little too heavy now,” and he seemed referring to himself. “I might ride the horse, I suppose,” he went on dubiously.
“He doesn’t look much like a saddle animal,” ventured Joe.