“Yes. The rein broke. He started near the gate here and ran three or four miles with me.”
“Bertie!” cried the girl. “And what happened?”
“Samuel stopped him.”
“How?”
“It was splendid, Glad—the nerviest thing I ever saw. He just flung himself at the rein and caught it and hung on. He saved my life, beyond question.”
And now Samuel, burning up with embarrassment, faced the full blaze of the girl's impetuous interest. “How perfectly fine!” she exclaimed; then, “Where do you come from?” she asked.
“He's just off a farm,” said Lockman. “He was on his way to New York to make his fortune. And think of it, Glad, he'd been robbed, and he'd been wandering about town begging for work, and he was nearly starving.”
“You don't say so!” gasped the girl.
She took a chair and indicated to Samuel to sit in front of her. “Tell me all about yourself,” she said; and proceeded to cross-question him about his life and his adventures.
Poor Samuel was like a witness in the hands of a prosecutor—he became hopelessly confused and frightened. But that made no difference to the girl, who poured a ceaseless fire of questions upon him, until she had laid his whole life bare. She even made him tell about Manning, the stockbroker, and how the family had lost its money in the collapse of Glass Bottle Securities. And then her cousin put in a word about his adventure with “Old Stew,” and Samuel had to tell that all over again, and to set forth his sociological convictions—Miss Wygant and her cousin meantime exchanging glances of wonder and amusement.