It was so near a thing that the father, running madly down the path, held his breath in despair; so near that Jo felt the bull’s hot breath as she flung herself at the gate. Had it been latched, all had been over with them; but the children had left it unfastened—it gave as they touched it, and in a second they were through. Jo freed one hand to bang it behind them. She heard the latch click—heard the thud of the bull’s shoulder as he came heavily upon the stout gate-post. Then her foot caught, and all three went down in a heap.
The man who came, racing, picked her up even before he looked at the badly frightened children. His breath came and went in gasps—even as Jo’s did.
“Well!” he said, and stopped at that.
“I’m sorry,” Jo said apologetically. “Father would be awfully annoyed if he knew that horrid old Jersey had given anyone a fright!”
“It’s thanks to you I’ve got my two kids,” said the man, gasping. “There, that’ll do, Jimmy—you’re not hurt, lad. I—I never saw anything like it. Sure you’re all right, Miss Weston?”
“I’m all right, I think,” Jo said. Suddenly she felt queer, and sat down on the grass. “I’ll just sit here a moment. How did you know my name?”
“Bless you, I know the pony,” he said, looking at Pilot, standing quietly by the road. The bull was already a hundred yards away, trotting steadily. “I’ll go and catch him.” He went out and secured Pilot, putting his bridle over a post, in the shade of a grevillea tree.
“You’re sure he’s all right?” Jo questioned anxiously.
“Right as rain.” The man’s ruddy face was still queerly white. “If I’m not mistaken that’s the bull I was going to take to Harrison’s this very day. Was you bringing him yourself?”
“I?” said Jo. “Good gracious, no! I didn’t even know that Mr. Harrison lived in this direction. The bull was left in our charge, and he got out. I was trying to get him back.”