Dick, however, proved quite equal to caring for himself. With a snort he leaped to one side, and jerking his rein from the policeman’s grasp, went dashing away.
So sudden was this turn that Cordie, caught unawares, was thrown crashing to the ground. The officer wheeled and rode after the horse.
It was the older man, the one with gray about his temples, who, quickly dismounting, helped the girl to her feet.
“Are you hurt?” he asked in a tone that had a fatherly touch in it.
That did the trick for Cordie. All her anger was gone. She was not injured, but tears came trickling out from beneath her eyelids as she half sobbed:
“I—I’m sorry. Truly I am. I didn’t, didn’t mean to. Truly—truly I didn’t! I—I used to ride him in races, on—on the farm. And I thought—thought it would be fun to just sit—sit a minute in his saddle. I tried it and I guess—guess he thought it was to be another race. Anyway, he—he bolted with me and I couldn’t stop him. Truly, truly I couldn’t!”
“That’s all right, Miss,” said the elderly one, putting a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “It may not be so bad, after all.”
The younger policeman had also dismounted and now stood smiling at them and appearing to wish he might take the place of his older friend.
“That is Pat O’Hara’s horse,” he said at last. “He’s the smartest mount on the force. And I’ll tell you one thing, if we wait for Hogan to catch him we’ll be here until to-morrow morning.”
Hogan, the irate policeman, was certainly having his troubles catching Dick. With the skill and mischief of a trained performer, Dick was playing tag with him in a masterly fashion. He would stand with head down as if asleep until his pursuer was all but upon him; then with a snort he would dash away. No amount of coaxing, cajoling or cursing could bring him any nearer to capture.