In the dusk of early evening, some months later, Tom was sauntering homeward, musing over the past, with an uncomfortable feeling that despite the long service he had given Mr. Warmore, and the many times he had expressed his satisfaction with him, the association was not likely to continue much longer.

There could be no mistaking the hearty dislike which Catherwood felt for the young man.  Tom would have cared little for that had not the discouraging conviction forced itself upon him that Mr. Warmore was beginning to share his future partner’s distrust.  It seemed to be an unconscious absorption on his part of the views of another.

This was hard to bear; but it rasped the young man’s sense of manhood, for it was an injustice which he did not expect.

“If Mr. Warmore is weak enough to let that fellow turn him against me, he is a different man from what I suspected.  His store is not the only one in the world, and at the first unfair act on his part, I shall leave—­hello!”

Coming down the road, on a swift gallop, with the reins flying, was a spirited horse, dragging a fashionable dog-cart, which, as it swayed from side to side, showed that it contained a single person,—­a lady, who had lost control of the animal.

“That looks bad,” muttered Tom, his heart leaping with natural excitement.  “She is likely to be killed.”

It looked as if the young man was to be given one of the stereotyped opportunities to prove his heroism,—­that of rescuing a beautiful young lady whose horse was running away.  He did not think of that, however, for it would have been the same had a bitter enemy been in peril.

The steed was coming like the whirlwind.  The clamp of his hoofs, his snorting nostrils, his flying mane, and dangling reins, the frail vehicle bounding from side to side and often on the point of overturning, the glimpses of the lady bravely holding on and uttering no scream,—­all these made up the most startling picture on which Tom Gordon had looked for many a day.

Stationing himself in the middle of the road, he swung his hat and arms, and shouted to the mad animal in the hope of making him slacken his speed sufficiently to allow the occupant to leap out.  The horse saw him, shied a little, moderated his pace a trifle, and then plunged forward on a run.

Clearly he was not to be checked by that means.  Tom Gordon braced himself for the shock of the supreme effort he had formed.

In a twinkling his strong grip had closed about the strap of the bit, and he threw his whole weight against the brute, who reared, plunged, struggled, struck with his fore feet, and strove to shake the incubus loose, but in vain.  Tom held on like grim death, though in imminent danger of being struck down and trampled upon.  No animal is quicker to recognize the hand of a master than a horse, and in less time than would be supposed possible the mad runaway was under control.