Then I struck the bull.

I caught him with the left of the front of the car.  The collision was at an angle of about thirty degrees, I should say.  I missed Harding by not more than six feet.  I presume we were travelling at a rate of a mile a minute, and that bull certainly was going one-third that fast.

As the front of the machine was upon the animal I ducked, but did not release my firm grip on the steering-wheel.  There was photographed on my brain an impression of a shaggy head, short and sharp horns, rage-crazed eyes, a wet nose and lolling tongue, of turf cast up by flying hooves, of a bearded face with staring eyes, of a red coat and a bewildering plaid—­and then the machine was upon them.

The shock of the collision was so slight that I feared I had missed my target.  I shut off the power and swung sharply to the right.  One glance proved that Mrs. Harding was uninjured.

Two objects were on the ground over which I had passed, and Carter and Chilvers were running toward them.  Had I struck Harding?  I suffered agonies in those moments, and I was the first to reach his side.

As I sprang from the car he raised to a sitting posture and attempted to speak, but it was impossible to do so.  Before Mrs. Harding could reach him he was on his feet, making gestures to indicate that he was not hurt.

“He’s all right!” shouted Chilvers, rushing up to us.  “Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Harding, he only stumbled and fell.  He’s winded but will catch his breath in a minute!”

Mr. Harding panted, and between gasps bowed and made pantomimic signs to indicate that Chilvers had correctly diagnosed his ailment.

His wife has too much sense to give way to her emotions at such a time.  She brushed his clothes and wiped the perspiration from his face.  Miss Harding and the others were on the scene before his voice came back to him.

“I’m—­all—­right!” he declared with much effort, walking and swinging his arms to prove it to himself and us.  Then he shook hands with me, and I noted that his violent exercise had not impaired the strength of his grip.  We walked over and looked at the dead bull.

“That was a good shot, Smith,” he said.  “That was great work.  Do you know how close you came to hitting me?”

“It was very close, but I had one eye on you,” I replied.

“I honestly believe it was the rush of air from the machine that keeled me over, but I was about done for.  I doubt if I would have made that pond.”

“Governor,” said Chilvers, “he would have nailed you in two more jumps.  That was as pretty a piece of interference as I ever saw.”

There was not a mark on the dead animal, whose neck must have been broken.

“When you struck him,” said Chilvers, “the air was full of surprised beef.  That bull went at least twelve feet in the air, and he never moved after he came down.  It was a glancing shot, and you could not have done better, Smith, if you made a hundred trials.”