the boys trailing on in the rear, the coach had now nearly reached the bottom of the hill, and was gathering speed with every jump of the frightened horses. A man rushed out from a house beside the road and grabbed at the bridle of the gray, but was thrown to the ground and narrowly escaped being trodden under foot.
On and on they went, until they were close to the little river that ran along at the foot of the hill. A bridge, about twelve feet in width, crossed the river at this point, and along this Jed tried to guide the horses. But just before they reached it, the passenger, who evidently feared that the team would crash into the railing, took a flying leap over the side of the coach and plunged head first into the river below.
The stage took the bridge, escaping the rails by a miracle. On the other side, the path curved sharply, and the team, keeping on blindly, brought up in a mass of bushes on the side of the road. The shaft snapped, and the driver was thrown over the horses’ heads and landed in a thicket, badly scratched but otherwise unhurt. Two of the boys, who had now come up, rushed to the heads of the trembling horses, and, with the aid of the driver, got them under control.
The others, including Fred and Teddy, ran to the assistance of the man in the water. He had come up, spluttering and snorting, but unharmed, except for the fright and the wetting. His hair was plastered over his face and his black clothes clung tightly to his angular frame.
The river was not deep at this point, and he waded to the bank, where many eager hands were outstretched to aid him. He felt that he presented a most undignified appearance, and, although, of course, thankful for his escape, he was angry clear through. He looked up, and for the first time they clearly saw his face.
A new horror came into Teddy’s eyes. He stepped back, startled, and his legs grew weak under him.
“It’s–it’s Uncle Aaron!” he stammered.
CHAPTER III
A NARROW ESCAPE
Modesty was not one of Teddy’s strong points, but just then he had a most violent desire to fade gently out of sight. He had not the slightest wish to be “in the limelight.” Never had he been more eager to play the part of the shrinking violet.
He tried to slip behind the other boys who came crowding around. But, even though partly blinded by the water that streamed over his face, the sharp eyes of his uncle had recognized him.
“So it’s you, is it?” he asked ungraciously. “I might have known that if there was trouble anywhere you’d be mixed up in it.”
Fred, ever eager to shield Teddy, came forward.
“Why, Uncle Aaron!” he exclaimed. “I’m awfully sorry this happened. Just wait a minute and I’ll hustle round to get a rig to take you – ”
“Happened!” broke in the shrill voice of his uncle. “Happened!” he snorted again, his wrath rising. “This thing didn’t just happen. Something made those horses run away, and I want to know just what it was. And I’m not going to be satisfied till I find out,” the man went on, glaring suspiciously from one to the other of the boys until he finally settled on Teddy.
But Teddy just then was intently studying the beautiful sunset.
Good-natured Jim Dabney tried, right here, to make a diversion.
“The horses must have got frightened at something,” he ventured hopefully.
“Yes,” said Jack Youmans, following his lead, “I could see that they were awfully scared.”
“You don’t say so!” retorted Uncle Aaron, with withering sarcasm. “I could guess as much as that myself.” And the two boys, having met with the usual fate of peacemakers, fell back, red and wilted.
“Gee, isn’t he an old crank?” muttered Jim.
“That’s what,” assented Jack. “I’d hate to be in Teddy’s shoes just now.”
To tell the truth, Teddy would gladly have loaned his shoes to any one on earth at that moment.
“Come here, Teddy,” called his uncle sharply, “and look me straight in the eye.”
Now, looking Uncle Aaron straight in the eye was far from being Teddy’s idea of pleasure. There were many things he would rather do than that. There had been many occasions before this when he had received the same invitation, and he had never accepted it without reluctance. It was a steely eye that seemed to look one through and through and turn one inside out.
Still, there was no help for it, and Teddy, with the air of an early Christian martyr, was slowly coming to the front, when suddenly they heard a shout of triumph, and, turning, saw Jed Muggs hold up something he had just found on the floor of the coach.
“Here it is!” he cried; “here’s the identical thing what done it!” And as he came shambling forward he held up, so that all could see it, the ball that had been only too well aimed when it had hit the gray horse.
Jed was a town character and the butt of the village jokes. He had been born and brought up there, and only on one occasion had strayed far beyond its limits. That was when he had gone on an excursion to the nearest large city. His return ticket had only been good for three days, but after his return, bewildered but elated, he had never tired of telling his experiences. Every time he told his story, he added some new variation, chiefly imaginary, until he at last came to believe it himself, and posed as a most extensive traveler.
“Yes, sir-ree,” he would wind up to his cronies in the general store, as he reached out to the barrel for another cracker, “they ain’t many things in this old world that I ain’t seen. They ain’t nobody kin take me fur a greenhorn, not much they ain’t!”
For more years past than most people could remember, he had driven the village stage back and forth between Oldtown and Carlette, the nearest railway station. He and his venerable team were one of the features of the place, and the farmers set their clocks by him as he went plodding past. Everybody knew him, and he knew the past history of every man, woman and child in the place. He was an encyclopedia of the village gossip and tradition for fifty years past. This he kept always on tap, and only a hint was needed to set him droning on endlessly.
Jed’s one aversion was the boys of Oldtown. He got on well enough with their elders, who humored and tolerated the old fellow. But he had never married, and, with no boys of his own to keep him young in heart, he had grown crankier and crustier as he grew older. They kept him on edge with their frequent pranks, and it was his firm conviction that they had no equals anywhere as general nuisances.
“I’ve traveled a lot in my time,” he would say, and pause to let this statement sink in; “yes, sir, I’ve traveled a lot, and I swan to man I never seen nowhere such a bunch of rapscallions as they is in this here town.”
Then he would bite off a fresh quid of tobacco and shake his head mournfully, and dwell on the sins of the younger generation.
Now, as he hobbled eagerly up to the waiting group, forgetting for the moment his “roomatics,” he was all aglow with animation. His loose jaw was wagging and his small eyes shone like a ferret’s.
“Here’s what done it,” he repeated, in his high, cracked voice, as he handed the ball to his partner in the accident. “I knew them horses of mine wouldn’t run away for nuthin’.”
“Nobody ever saw them run before,” Jack Youmans could not help saying.
“You
