CHAPTER IA GIRL, A DOG, AND A MAN.

When Miss Elizabeth Wiggin settled herself comfortably in the shade of the spreading oak in Libby’s pasture, she looked forward eagerly to a pleasant and quiet hour with her book, “Wooed, Won, and Wedded.” As may be surmised from the title of the book, Miss Wiggin was romantic. She was likewise just eighteen years of age, and the daughter of Judge Nathan P. Wiggin, of Greenbush, the village that could be seen nestling in the valley something like a mile distant from that hillside oak.

Miss Wiggin lived in Greenbush, but on pleasant afternoons she had a habit of wandering away, accompanied only by an aged shepherd dog, in search of some spot where she could read without fear of interruption. For her grim old father objected to trashy love stories, and her ascetic spinster aunt, who had acted as the judge’s housekeeper since the death of Mrs. Wiggin, held all such fiction in abhorrence.

Indeed, the animus of Aunt Sally Wiggin against stories depicting the ravages wrought by the little god of the bow and arrow was so extreme that, by consigning such terrible tales to the flames whenever she found them about the house, she conscientiously did her best to prevent them from turning the head of her niece. She even forbade the village news dealer to sell Bessie any more books of that type.

In these days, however, it is no easy matter to deprive any one of the mental pabulum that is desired, and Aunt Sally had set herself a task that she could not accomplish. Lemuel Dodd, Judge Wiggin’s hostler and man of all work, red-headed, freckled, and homely as a slump fence, undeterred by the discouraging fact that his persistent efforts to make love to Bessie seemed merely to arouse her amusement, became her secret and faithful ally. Twice a week, at least, he spent twenty-five cents of his wages for a paper-covered novel to be smuggled into her possession, and invariably he chose the ones whose titles seemed to promise that their contents would come up to Elizabeth’s requirements.

“There ain’t many single fellers left round this town,” Lemuel told himself, “and mebbe if she reads enough of them yarns she’ll git so desprit she’ll have to grab what’s handy. And when she gits the notion to grab, I’m going to take keer that I’m the handiest thing in reach.”

And so, on this sunny September afternoon, Bessie Wiggin was seeking the shade of the oak in Libby’s pasture, presumably afar from interruption, and prepared thoroughly to enjoy Lemuel’s latest contribution. Her face was almost hidden by one of Aunt Sally’s extremely old-fashioned sunbonnets, which she had hastily taken when she slipped out of the house with the book. Shep, the old dog, stretched himself in the short grass at her feet and prepared to go to sleep comfortably.

The view from this spot, at a considerable distance from the brown road that wound, ribbonlike, down into the village, was pleasant to the eye, but the judge’s daughter lost no time in admiring the scenery. She was soon absorbed in the pages of her novel.

So absorbed did she become that she failed to hear the approaching steps of a somewhat dusty and soiled, but decidedly good-looking, young man in a brown Norfolk suit, knee-length leather leggings, and a motoring cap. He was within a few yards of her when he saw her and stopped.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said, looking down upon the obscuring sunbonnet.

She uttered a little startled scream, and looked up, her blue eyes wide, her red lips parted. A glimpse of the pretty and youthful face which the sunbonnet had concealed caused the stranger to catch his breath.

“Reginald!” exclaimed Miss Wiggin, beholding before her the living incarnation of the hero of her book just as her fancy had pictured him.

“Daphne!” said the young man, thinking of the mythological wood nymph.

“Woof!” barked the old dog, awaking and springing up as quickly as age and rheumatism would allow.

The stranger backed round to the opposite side of the tree. “Keep that beast away from me, please,” he begged, in evident apprehension.

With a swift sweep of one slender hand, Miss Wiggin thrust back the sunbonnet, which, held by the loosely knotted ribbons, hung suspended on her shoulders, exposing a mass of wavy, golden-brown hair. At the same moment, with remarkable agility and grace, she half rose and half turned. On her knees, her right hand clasping the book, the fingers of her left hand lightly touching the ground, her gaze followed the shrinking young man, who was now fearfully watching the ominously growling dog. Surely this was unexpected and disappointing behavior for Reginald, the brave, who—in her novel—had unhesitatingly faced the most frightful perils for his lady fair.

Made suspicious by the actions of the stranger, Shep advanced, bristling and snapping. As if contemplating instant flight, the young man gave one hasty look around. The nearest fence was some six or eight rods away, and it did not promise to stop a ferocious and angry dog in pursuit of a fleeing fugitive, and there was no other refuge in sight.

“Keep that creature away, won’t you?” again entreated the agitated man, placing the trunk of the tree between himself and the animal. “I detest dogs!”

“Oh, Reginald!” sighed Bessie Wiggin in bitter disappointment!

“Oh, hang it!” exploded the stranger, with shocking violence. “If I had a gun——”

Shep charged, barking violently. He meant to stop out of reach of the man’s feet in case he showed a disposition to kick. But, making a great leap, the stranger clutched a stout lower limb of the tree, and swung himself up out of the reach of harm with the most amazing celerity, the dog snapping at his heels as they receded skyward.

Perched astride the limb, with his feet drawn up, the refugee shook his fist at the raging animal, which, inflamed by success, made another great jump into the air and fell back on the ground, his age-enfeebled legs collapsing beneath him.

Still kneeling, the girl burst into a peal of laughter.

CHAPTER IIROMANCE JUSTIFIED.

“Go to it!” said the exasperated man in the tree. “Get in your laugh while the laughing’s good. If your confounded dog had succeeded in chewing some chunks out of me, I suppose you’d simply have collapsed with merriment.”

“Oh, dear!” gasped Miss Wiggin, trying to suppress her mirth. “If you only realized how ridiculous it is! Old Shep couldn’t hurt a sick kitten.”

“Huh!” grunted the stranger skeptically. “Perhaps not, but he certainly showed a strong desire to plant a few teeth in any part of my person that he could reach.”

Miss Wiggin continued to laugh. “It would have to be a few teeth, as he’s lost almost all that he ever had, and he’s so old that he’s half deaf and getting blind. That’s why he didn’t warn me that you were coming. If you hadn’t shown that you were scared, he’d never have made an offer to touch you.”

“How was I to know that?” demanded the man on the limb, flushing. “On such short notice I couldn’t tell whether he was a senile and harmless old dog or a young and savage one bent on making a meal off my person.”

“You’re an awful coward, aren’t you?” asked the girl, rising to her feet and regarding him with open contempt.

She was slender, willowy, and graceful. He considered that she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen, and he wondered how, even with the sunbonnet hiding her face, he had made the blunder of mistaking her for a middle-aged woman. He felt his heart thumping queerly. He also felt his face burning beneath her unmasked disdain.

“Let me explain,” he pleaded hastily.

“It isn’t necessary,” she cut him short. “I don’t suppose there are any Reginalds to be found outside the pages of fiction.”

“The Daphnes,” he returned, “are myths.”

She tossed her head. “Besides being a ’fraid cat,” she retorted, “you’re just about the most impolite person I ever met. What were you doing prowling around in this field, anyhow?”

“Being in haste to secure a conveyance to Albion for two gentlemen whose motor has broken down back yonder on the road, I was making a short cut to town and avoiding the most of the hill. The gentlemen must catch the three-forty train at Albion. It is now,” he stated, balancing himself on the limb and taking out his watch, “seven minutes past two.”

“And twenty-three miles to Albion. Your gentlemen will have to hurry.”

“They may make it if I can get an automobile in town.”

Again she laughed. “Automobiles aren’t popular in Greenbush. Peter Beedy is the only citizen who owns one. He’s been arrested and fined four times for exceeding the speed limit of eight miles an hour. The last time that happened he was so mad he swore he’d never start the machine again, and he had it towed to his barn and stored away.”

“Thanks for the information. Me for Peter Beedy.” He glanced downward. Sitting on his haunches and gazing upward with a wistful eye, Shep was licking his old chops. “If you will be good enough to call your dog away and keep a firm, restraining hand upon him, I’ll hit the high spots between here and Mr. Beedy’s domicile.”

“As long as you’re so completely lacking in sand,” said she, “I’ll collar Shep and hold him until you get a fair start. But let me warn you that if you succeed in getting Beedy’s auto you’ll certainly be pinched and fined if you’re caught driving faster than eight miles an hour anywhere within the town limits.”

“It’s always necessary,” was his retort, “first to catch your hare. If Beedy’s bubble has any speed at all, somebody will be handed a laugh. When you give the word, I’ll come down.”

Now it chanced that neither of them had noticed the approach of Libby’s bull, confined in that same pasture. The bull was ugly, and resentful of intrusion on its domain. And just as the girl placed one hand on the dog’s collar the bull charged, with a snort and a bellow. The man on the limb shouted a warning. The girl screamed and dodged behind the tree. The dog, seeing the charging beast by accident, bounded lamely to meet him. And the bull, with one sweep of his horns, tossed the dog fifteen feet into the air.

The man in the tree was paralyzed with horror. The disastrous attempt of the dog to protect his mistress seemed to check the charging bull for barely a fraction of a second. With glaring eyes, the beast came on, dashing straight at the terrified girl.

“The fence!” shouted the man. “Run!”

Even as he uttered the words he realized what would happen if she attempted to obey. The infuriated beast would overtake her, toss her with its horns even as the old dog had been tossed, gore her, trample the life out of her delicate body. For the briefest fraction of time, he was sickened by the thought. Then he dropped from the tree directly in the path of the mad creature. As he dropped, he snatched the cap from his head. The instant his toes touched the turf, he sprang to one side. The bull missed him by a foot, and he struck the animal across the eyes with his cap.

It seemed like a feeble thing to do, but he had time for nothing else, and he hoped desperately to turn the attention of the beast from the girl; hoped somehow, by diverting the creature’s fury to himself, to give her an opportunity to flee to safety beyond the fence.

The girl had circled round the tree, keeping it between herself and the bull. As the man struck the animal, the latter swerved and turned with amazing speed, surprised, perhaps, by the appearance of a second human being on the scene. The stranger waved his arms and shouted challengingly. The animal accepted the challenge promptly and charged at him.

“Oh!” gasped Miss Wiggin. “He’ll be—killed!”

But, almost with the agility of a capeador, the young man again leaped aside at precisely the right moment to foil the beast. Again he struck with his cap, but this time it was impaled on one of the bull’s horns and torn from his hand.

Without glancing round at the girl, he cried sharply, commandingly: “Run for the fence! I’ll keep him busy till you are safe.”

Bessie Wiggin ran, just as she was ordered to do, although she did not realize what she was doing until she had almost reached the fence. Too terrified to look back, she actually sailed over the barrier almost as a frightened deer might have done, scarcely touching the top rail, falling safe on the far side amid some bowlders and bushes, where for a moment she lay panting and helpless.

She was aroused by Shep. The faithful old dog had not been killed. Limping and whining, he had followed her in her flight and dragged himself through the fence. Still whining plaintively, he was licking her face.

With a sobbing cry, she seized the fence and pulled herself to her feet. Still baiting the bull, the young man was dodging round and round the tree, the enraged beast making every effort to reach him. He had kept his word; he had held the attention of the animal while she escaped; the handsome stranger she had called a coward had taken this dreadful risk for her.

Realizing the danger he was in, she called to him wildly: “Oh, look out—look out! Jump—quick! Run! Do something!”

He certainly was doing something; in fact, he was an extremely busy person just then. Again and again he appeared to avoid the rushes of the bull barely by a hair’s breadth. Each time this happened the girl’s heart seemed ready to burst with terror. It could not last long. The snorting, bellowing beast would get him at last. A slight miscalculation, the slightest slip, and it would all be over.

Bessie Wiggin grasped a stake of the fence, and tried desperately to tear it loose, intending to return to the assistance of the stranger with this weapon. She was the coward, after all! She had run away and left him to be killed!

Then she saw him “put over” a bit of strategy on the bull. The animal had paused for a moment, and turned slowly upon him, pawing the ground. Instead of placing the tree between himself and danger, the man planted his back against it, his eyes never leaving the beast for an instant.

Waving his hands in gestures of disdain, he taunted the creature. “Come on, old lumberheels! Wake up and show a little pep! Throw into high gear and give us some speed. Don’t quit now; the fun’s just begun. Wake up! Come on!”

The bull leaped forward like a hurricane. And just as the pale and horrified girl expected to see the man impaled to the tree, he slipped deftly behind it. The head of the bull crashed against the oak, and the animal staggered as if struck by a butcher’s maul.

The stranger laughed. “That ought to give you a slight headache,” he said.

“Run!” cried the girl. “This way—quick! Now’s the time!”

Dazed, the bull was backing off slowly, shaking his head. Evidently the man agreed with Bessie that the moment was propitious, for he turned and raced toward the fence. But the animal had not been injured nearly as much as one might have supposed, and, seeing his mocking foe in flight, he plunged in pursuit.

The stranger was fleet-footed, but the bull was a trifle fleeter. Just as the runner gathered himself to take the fence with one clean leap, the beast overtook him. Through the air sailed the man, propelled by the head and horns of the bull, as well as by the spring of his own legs. Over the fence in a great curve he came, crashing head downward amid the rocks and bushes.

When the young man opened his eyes again, he discovered that his head was resting in the lap of Miss Bessie Wiggin, who, sobbing hysterically, was wiping his forehead with a bloodstained handkerchief.

He looked up at her and smiled. “Daphne!” he whispered.

“Reginald!” she cried.

CHAPTER IIIIT NEVER RAN SMOOTH.

“You’re not killed, are you?” she sobbed, trying to stanch the flow of blood that trickled from a gash at the edge of his hair near his temple.

“If I am,” he returned, with a feeble effort to jest, “I don’t know it yet.”

“But you’re hurt. You struck on your head.”

“Probably that saved my life. Solid ivory, you know. I will admit that I feel a trifle upset, so to speak. No, don’t move—please don’t! The mere thought of your moving gives me pain.”

“But I must go for help. You’re wounded.”

“I am,” he admitted, gazing up into her blue eyes in a manner that gave her a most peculiar sensation. “Mortally wounded. I fear. I never was hit so hard in my life, and I am afraid I can’t recover.”

Again she cried out in apprehension and distress. “Oh, I was afraid you were done for when that beast caught you!”

“I am,” was his singularly cheerful acknowledgment; “I’m done for. I’ve got mine. The jig is up with me.”

“Is it your arms, your legs? Your ribs—are they smashed? Where do you feel it most?”

“Here,” he answered, putting his hand to his heart. “Rut it isn’t my ribs; it’s something deeper, Daphne.”

“That isn’t my name; it’s Bessie.”

“Bessie! Mine’s George. Awfully commonplace, isn’t it? Now, if my folks had only called me Reginald——”

“You mustn’t try to talk. I’m sure it’s painful. You must keep still.”

“I will if you’ll keep on talking yourself. The sound of your voice soothes me like the murmuring of a brook. Your eyes are like springtime violets. The touch of your little hand is as delicious as a draft of pure water to a person dying of thirst. Now I’ll leave it to you if a Reginald could beat that speech much.”

She stiffened and drew back a bit, the color beginning to return to her pale cheeks. They looked at each other steadily, and the returning flush covered her face.

Beyond the fence the victorious bull pawed the ground; from a vantage of safety the old dog glared through the rails and regarded the bull with disapproval, but the man and girl paid no attention to either of them. The girl had turned her gaze toward the distant road that wound down into the village.

“I don’t believe you are hurt much,” she said, in a low voice, which, however, was made unsteady by a queer little throbbing in her throat. “If you were, you couldn’t talk like that.”

“It’s because I am that I can talk like that,” he declared. “It’s the first time I ever talked that way to any one.”

“Your friends who have to get to Albion,” she murmured; “I’m afraid they’ll lose their train.”

“By Jove!” he cried, sitting up suddenly. “I’d clean forgotten them!”

“You were fooling me!” she exclaimed, as she started to rise.

With a groan he fell back. The crimson, oozing from his wound, ran down across his temple, and in another moment she was again checking the flow with her handkerchief. His eyes were closed, and she imagined he had fainted.

“Oh, dear!” She seemed distraught. “I don’t know what to do! I’ve got to get help, but if I leave you, you may bleed to death.”

“Don’t let me bleed to death,” he begged faintly. “Don’t leave me—Bessie. You mustn’t leave me—as long as I live.”

It seemed a great effort for him to lift his eyelids, but he looked at her again, and the appeal in his eyes filled her with a feeling of desperation.

“You must have a doctor.”

“You’re the only doctor I want. You’re the only doctor who can cure me. If you throw up the case and turn me over to a common pill slinger, I’ll never get over it.”

“But I’ve simply got to get help for you somehow. I’ll hurry.”

“I can’t let you go. I’m an awful coward, you know, and——”

“You’re nothing of the sort! I’ve never seen anybody as brave as you are.”