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Varley gave a sudden laugh. “I get it! You’re talking about the runaway. And you’re right—I was the fellow who took the tumble.”

“The runaway?” Two or three of the boys spoke in chorus, wonderingly. Sam Parker instinctively began to edge away. The movement caught the woman’s attention. A sharp glance at Sam, and her expression brightened.

“Here he is, sure enough!” she cried. “He didn’t tumble, and he held on like grim death till the colt stopped, and the men came running up to help. And then he slipped off before I could get my breath or my manners back enough to say ‘Thank you!’ But I’m going to say it now, and say it out loud!”

With that, she briskly pursued the retreating Sam, overhauled him, and cast an affectionate arm about his shoulders. Then, holding him prisoner, she addressed all within hearing.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard or haven’t heard about this, and I don’t care. I’m going to give my testimony. This boy”—she gave Sam a vigorous hug—“this boy did a brave thing. He took the chance of breaking his neck, when my colt was frightened by one of those pesky automobiles and made a bolt. This boy”—another hug—“stopped him, and saved me from being killed, or getting an awful spill. And I’ve come here to look him up, and thank him good and proper—so there!”