“The runaway?” Two or three of the boys spoke in chorus, wonderingly. Sam Parker instinctively began to edge away. The movement caught the woman’s attention. A sharp glance at Sam, and her expression brightened.
“Here he is, sure enough!” she cried. “He didn’t tumble, and he held on like grim death till the colt stopped, and the men came running up to help. And then he slipped off before I could get my breath or my manners back enough to say ‘Thank you!’ But I’m going to say it now, and say it out loud!”
With that, she briskly pursued the retreating Sam, overhauled him, and cast an affectionate arm about his shoulders. Then, holding him prisoner, she addressed all within hearing.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard or haven’t heard about this, and I don’t care. I’m going to give my testimony. This boy”—she gave Sam a vigorous hug—“this boy did a brave thing. He took the chance of breaking his neck, when my colt was frightened by one of those pesky automobiles and made a bolt. This boy”—another hug—“stopped him, and saved me from being killed, or getting an awful spill. And I’ve come here to look him up, and thank him good and proper—so there!”
Now, to tell the truth, Sam at the moment looked anything but a hero; for he was wriggling and struggling vainly, and blushing furiously and unhappily. So public and so demonstrative a display of gratitude overwhelmed him.
“I—I—oh, ’twasn’t anything,” he stammered.
“I tell you, it was a whole lot to me!” declared the woman. “And I’ve been racking my brains how to show how I feel about it.” Again her arm tightened, and for a panic-stricken second Sam thought she was about to kiss him then and there, and in the presence of the crowd. He made a frantic effort for freedom, and his captress, who may have had some notion of boyish diffidence, released him, her eyes twinkling.
Sam would have given much for the privilege of instant flight; but luckily kept his wits and held his ground. To run away would be merely to add fuel to the fire of ridicule to which he believed his mates would subject him. So he tarried, and miserably attempted to smile, thereby deceiving nobody, and least of all the visitor.
With a degree of tact she turned to the principal.
“You’re Mr. Curtis, aren’t you? I thought that was your name. Mine’s Grant—Mrs. John Grant. I live over in Sugar Valley. I guess that’ll do for introductions, though you might as well tell me this boy’s name, if you please.”