"Whose horse
is it?"
"I don't know, constable," was the answer, given with a country twang
that caused several spectators to smile. "I jest seen him comin' and
I see he was headed for them people what's goin' to Europe, I expect.
I didn't want their voyage spoiled, so I jest jumped at his head."
"Well, you know how to do it, all right," said the second
"constable," as the young farmer had called the policemen.
"I ought to know how to handle horses," was the answer, as the youth
relinquished the reins to the officer. "I've been among 'em all my
life. I was brought up on a farm."
He looked it, but there was something in his simple, manly face, and
in the look of his honest blue eyes, that made one like him.
"Good work, all right!" repeated the first officer. "I'll take your
name, young fellow, for my report," and he drew out a notebook. "I'll
also want to find out to whom the horse belongs, but I s'pose the
truckman's license number will be a clue."
"He's mine," broke in a voice, as a drayman pushed his way through
the crowd. "Some boys got to fooling around him, and he started off.
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