never leaving the beast for an instant.

Waving his hands in gestures of disdain, he taunted the creature. “Come on, old lumberheels! Wake up and show a little pep! Throw into high gear and give us some speed. Don’t quit now; the fun’s just begun. Wake up! Come on!”

The bull leaped forward like a hurricane. And just as the pale and horrified girl expected to see the man impaled to the tree, he slipped deftly behind it. The head of the bull crashed against the oak, and the animal staggered as if struck by a butcher’s maul.

The stranger laughed. “That ought to give you a slight headache,” he said.

“Run!” cried the girl. “This way—quick! Now’s the time!”

Dazed, the bull was backing off slowly, shaking his head. Evidently the man agreed with Bessie that the moment was propitious, for he turned and raced toward the fence. But the animal had not been injured nearly as much as one might have supposed, and, seeing his mocking foe in flight, he plunged in pursuit.

The stranger was fleet-footed, but the bull was a trifle fleeter. Just as the runner gathered himself to take the fence with one clean leap, the beast overtook him. Through the air sailed the man, propelled by the head and horns of the bull, as well as by the spring of his own legs. Over the fence in a great curve he came, crashing head downward amid the rocks and bushes.

When the young man opened his eyes again, he discovered that his head was resting in the lap of Miss Bessie Wiggin, who, sobbing hysterically, was wiping his forehead with a bloodstained handkerchief.

He looked up at her and smiled. “Daphne!” he whispered.

“Reginald!” she cried.

 CHAPTER IIIIT NEVER RAN SMOOTH. 

CHAPTER III

“You’re not killed, are you?” she sobbed, trying to stanch the flow of blood that trickled from a gash at the edge of his hair near his temple.

“If I am,” he returned, with a feeble effort to jest, “I don’t know it yet.”

“But you’re hurt. You struck on your head.”

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