Jouncer’s hoofs made such a clatter on the hard pavements of the main street of Boontown that the people had time to scatter to the right and left, while the horse guided himself clear of the wagons and buggies.

Philip had no power to stop or to turn him. All he could do was to stick on, which he did right well.

Everybody saw that it was a runaway. The boys shouted, and some of the women screamed, and one negro man ran out into the street to stop the horse, but his courage failed him as Jouncer approached, and he let him pass.

The wildly galloping horse had passed more than half through the town, when a man who was about to cross the street suddenly heard or saw the rapidly-approaching animal, and gave a quick start backward. His heels slipped or struck something, and he fell sprawling on his back, a bundle he carried rolling one way and his hat another.

Jouncer passed quite close to him as he lay upon the ground, but Philip could not tell whether the horse’s hoofs struck the man or not.

He turned his head to look back, but just at this moment Jouncer went round a corner, and, rushing along a side street, was soon out in the open country.

When he found himself on an uneven and dusty road, the horse seemed to lose his taste for galloping, and very soon slackened his pace. He then moderated the boiling of his Arabian blood to such a degree that his rider was enabled to pull him in, and finally to stop him.

Philip dismounted, and as he stood by the roadside, with the bridle in his hand, he could not help feeling glad that neither his uncle nor Joel were there at that moment to see Jouncer.

It was a very hot day, and the noble animal looked as if he had taken a Russian steam-bath, and had had a little too much of it. His sides were heaving, he was puffing hard, and every hair was dripping, but the queerest thing about him was a black straw hat, through the crown of which he had thrust one of his hind feet, and which was now stuck fast above his fetlock.

Philip made the horse lift his foot, and he pulled off the hat. Then he exclaimed,—

“I’ve seen this hat before, and I am sure I never saw but one of the kind. I remember now. It belonged to the man who came to see uncle last night. I hope I haven’t hurt him, whoever he is.”

Much troubled in his mind, Philip took the hat in one hand and Jouncer’s bridle in the other, and led the horse slowly back to town. He would have first rubbed him down, but he had nothing to do it with.

Not caring, after his John Gilpin ride, to re-enter the main thoroughfare of the town, he went along a side street until he reached a shady spot, not very far from Mr. Welford’s office.

Jouncer was beginning to dry off by this time, and, having tied him to a tree, Philip walked up the main street. He first went to the store where his uncle generally bought groceries and other supplies, and going up to Mr. McNeal,—one of the partners, with whom he was acquainted,—he asked him if he had heard that anybody had been hurt by a runaway horse a short time before.

Mr. McNeal had not heard of any accident of the kind, and rather guessed if anything of that sort had occurred he would have known of it, for people had been coming to the store pretty steadily all the morning.

Philip then told him about the runaway and the man who had tumbled down, and concluded by asking him if he might leave that hat there to be called for.

“Very well,” said Mr. McNeal, taking the hat. “I’ll hang it up in a safe place; but it strikes me that the owner of this had better buy a new one.”

“It isn’t hurt much,” said Phil. “I looked at it carefully. The top of the crown can easily be sewed on, and it is pretty fine straw, you see.”

“Yes,” said the other, “it has been a good hat, but I don’t think I ever saw another like it, though I’ve sold a good many hats myself. After all, if the man who wore it likes this kind of hat, I guess he’ll want this one back again, for he’s not apt to get another like it—at least, in this town. It must belong to a stranger, for nobody here wears such a thing.”

The hat was then put away, and Philip, having borrowed half a sheet of paper, wrote thereon a notice to the effect that any one having lost a black straw hat might get it by applying at the store of Henderson & McNeal, and describing the article.

He then went round to the post-office, near by, and stuck up this notice by the side of the main door, in company with a great many other notices of cows and horses for sale, articles lost, and matters of that nature. After this he went to see Mr. Welford.

The banker was a quiet, middle-aged man, who knew Philip very well, the boy having frequently visited his office to attend to business for his uncle. He read Mr. Godfrey Berkeley’s note.

“It is very strange,” he remarked,—“very strange! Didn’t he tell you when he was coming back?”

“No, sir,” answered Philip; “but I thought he might have said something about it in your note.”

“Not a word,” said Mr. Welford. “And I am very sorry, indeed, that I did not know that he was going away at this time. It might have prevented a good deal of trouble. But there is nothing to be done now but to carry out his instructions. You can draw the money you need in the manner he mentions here, and, of course, you will be as economical as you can in your expenditures. I hope he won’t be gone very long; but, in the mean time, we must get on the best we can.”

He looked at Philip a moment, and then he said,—

“You are a young fellow to have charge of a house and farm, though I suppose your uncle knew what he was about. How did you come to town?”

This question was asked as a sort of finishing remark to the conversation, and the banker picked up some papers which lay on his desk.

“I rode in,” said Philip, “on uncle’s horse.”

Mr. Welford turned suddenly, as if the thought had just struck him.

“Was that you,” he said, “who went tearing up the street a while ago?”

“Yes, sir,” said Philip. “The horse ran away with me.”

“I thought your uncle’s horse was a very gentle beast? At least he always seemed so to me.”

“He is gentle, as a general thing,” said Philip; “but the fact is, I had a little race on the road, and that got his blood up.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Welford.

And then Philip took his leave.

“I am sorry he’s that kind of boy,” said the banker to himself, as he took up his papers again. “I hope Godfrey Berkeley will not stay away long.”

As Philip went to get his horse he found a man holding him by the bridle.

“Do you know,” said the man, “that there’s a fine of five dollars for tying a horse to a tree in this town?”

Philip’s heart went right down into his boots.

“No, sir,” he said; “I didn’t know it at all.”

“Well, there is,” said the other; “and, as I had to wait for a customer who’s going to meet me here, I untied the horse and held him. I thought I might save somebody five dollars, before a town constable came along. There’s only two of them, to be sure, but they’re as likely to be in one place as another.”

Phil’s heart came out of his boots with a bound.

“I’m very much obliged to you, sir,” he said. “I didn’t know anything about that law.”

The man was a tall and rather coarsely dressed person, wearing a linen coat and high boots, into which his trousers were thrust.

As Phil looked up at him, he saw that he had a very pleasant and kindly countenance.

“You’ve ridden your horse pretty hard,” said the man. “He looks as if you had been salting him down. Did you come in town for a doctor?”

“No,” said Phil.

And then he explained how Jouncer had happened to travel so fast.

“If you want to race a horse,” said the other,— “that is, if you do such things at all,—you ought to wait for cooler weather. It is pretty hard on a beast to make him run on a day like this.”

“But I didn’t make him do much of it,” said Phil. “He did almost all the hard running on his own account.”

“I tell you what it is,” said the man, with a smile, “when a horse has a human bein’ on his back, nearly all the brains of that party is to be found under the rider’s hat; and if them brains ain’t put to good use there’s always a pretty fair chance of trouble.”

Phil agreed that this was so, and, mounting Jouncer, he bade the man good-by and rode homeward.

When about half a mile out of town he overtook a boy walking in a foot-path by the side of the turnpike.

“Hello, Phœnix!” cried Phil; “what are you doing here?”

“Going home,” said Phœnix.

“But why are you walking?” asked Phil, as he rode slowly by the side of his sturdy friend.

“Well,” said Phœnix, “the old man was awful mad when he saw Selim. Chap and I did think of driving the horse into the river, so that he’d get wet even all over; but then there wasn’t any good reason for giving him a wash, and Chap and I thought it might hurt him to drive him in when he was so hot.”

“It would have killed him, sure!” exclaimed Phil.

“That’s what Chap and I thought,” said Phœnix, “and we didn’t do it.”

“So your father was mad, was he?” said Phil.

“Mad is no word for it,” replied his friend. “He just blazed; and when he got through he told me that, as I had had such an extra good time riding into town, I might walk home. Chap wanted to walk with me, but he wouldn’t let him. But I tell you one thing, I’d a great sight rather walk home than ride with the old man to-day.”

“I’ll take you up behind me,” said Phil, “if you say so. I don’t believe Jouncer will mind it.”

“Much obliged,” said Phœnix, taking off his hat and wiping the perspiration from his heated forehead, “but I guess I won’t. I rather like walking, especially on a fine day like this.”

“A blazing fine day,” said Phil, laughing; “but if I can’t do anything for you I’ll push on, or I’ll be late for dinner.”