“Holy buckets!” Genuine apprehension was in the Englishman’s voice.  Without waiting for further explanation he shot out of the door, and ran full tilt to the paddock behind the barn.  There he stopped, and Rankin coming up a moment later, the two men stood side by side watching the approach of a small figure still some rods away.  The boy’s face and hands were marked with bloodstains from numerous scratches; one leg of his trousers was torn disclosing the skin, and upon that side when he walked he limped noticeably.  All these things the two men observed at a distance.  When he came closer, they were forgotten in the look upon his small face.  The odd trick the boy had of throwing his lower jaw forward was now emphasized until the lower teeth fairly overshot the upper.  In sympathy, the eyes had tightened, not morosely or cruelly, but with a fixed determination which was all but uncanny.  Scotty shifted a bit uncomfortably.

“By Jove!” he remarked, with his usual unconscious expletive, “I’d rather have a tiger-cat on my trail than that youngster, if he was to look that way.  What do you suppose he’s got in his cranium now?”

Rankin shook his head.  “I don’t know.  He’s beyond me.”

Scarcely a minute passed before the boy returned.  He had another bridle in his hand and a fresh pan of oats.  As before, he started to pass without a word, but Rankin halted him.  “What’s the matter with your clothes, Ben?” he queried.

The lad looked at his questioner.  “Horse threw me, sir.”

“And what are you going to do now?”

“Going to try to ride him again, sir.”

Rankin paused, his face growing momentarily more severe.

“Ben,” he said at last, “did Mr. Baker hire you to break his horses?  If I were you I’d put those things away and ask his pardon.”

The boy looked from one man to the other uncertainly.  Obviously, this phase of the matter had not occurred to him.  Obviously, too, the point of view must be correct, for both Rankin and Scotty were solemn as the grave.  The lad shot out toward the pasture a glance that spoke volumes; then he turned to Baker.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said.

Scotty caught his cue.  “Granted—­this time,” he answered.

A half-hour later, Rankin and Ben, the latter carefully washed, the rents in his trousers temporarily repaired, were ready to go home.  Not until the very last moment did Florence appear; then, her face a bit flushed, she came out to the buckboard.

“Good-bye,” she said simply.  There was a moment’s pause; then, with a deepening color, she turned to Ben Blair.  “Come again soon,” she added in a low tone.

CHAPTER VII

THE SANITY OF THE WILD