Fortunately the ponies, seeming to sense the fact that their danger was over, became quieter, and hastily the agent made them fast to the sapling, then rushed to the boy’s assistance.
“Jove! That was close work. He’s a monster. Did he tear Ted with his claws?”
“I don’t think so. I can’t find any wounds.” By this time Andy himself was kneeling beside the still motionless lad, swiftly running his hands over his limbs to learn if any were broken.
“Thank goodness the bear didn’t cuff him with his paws. There isn’t a mark on him. Bring the coffee-pot. I think he has only fainted.”
Quickly Phil did as he was bidden, and Andy raised Ted’s head, opened his mouth, and poured a long draught of the strong black coffee down his throat.
“Rub his hands!” he commanded.
The treatment, however, did not revive the young homesteader.
“Oh, Andy, do something!” pleaded Phil. “He isn’t d—”
But a vigorous sneeze by Ted stopped the dread word on his lips, for the agent had struck a match and held the sulphurous fumes to the boy’s nose.
“That’s the stuff!” cried Andy, in relief. “Another match and he’ll be himself again.”