e left the sidewalk and sought the centre
of the road, pretending that out there he could better search for a
valuable lost horse. The Ransom children were at first in two minds
about following him, but they soon found it more interesting to stay on
the sidewalk. They could pause to acquaint the churchgoers with a matter
of common interest. "He throwed Merton off right into the dirt."

If the people they addressed appeared to be doubting this, or to find
it not specific enough, they would call ahead to Merton to confirm their
simple tale. With rapt, shining faces, they spread the glad news, though
hurrying always to keep pace with the figure in the road.

Spruce Street was vacant of Dexter, but up Elm Street, slowly cropping
the wayside herbage as he went, was undoubtedly Merton's good old pal.
He quickened his pace. Dexter seemed to divine his coming and broke
into a kittenish gallop until he reached the Methodist Church. Here,
appearing to believe that he had again eluded pursuit, he stopped to
graze on a carefully tended square of grass before the sacred edifice.
He was at once shooed by two scandalized old ladies, but paid them no
attention. They might perhaps even have tickled him, for this was the
best grass he had found since leaving home. Other churchgoers paused in
consternation, looking expectantly at the approaching Merton Gill. The
three happy children who came up with him left no one in doubt of the
late happening.

Merton was still the artist. He saw himself approach Dexter, vault
into the saddle, put spurs to the beast, and swiftly disappear down the
street. People would be saying that he should not be let to ride so fast
through a city street. He was worse than Gus Giddings. But he saw this
only with his artist's eye. In sordid fact he went up to Dexter, seized
the trailing bridle reins and jerked savagely upon them. Back over the
trail he led his good old pal. And for other later churchgoers
there were the shrill voices of friendly children to tell what had
happened--to appeal confidently to Merton, vaguely ahead in the
twilight, to confirm their interesting story.

Dexter, the anarchist, was put to bed without his goodnight kiss. Good
old Pinto had done his pal dirt. Never again would he be given a part in
Buck Benson's company. Across the alley came the voices of tired, happy
children, in the appeal for an encore. "Mer-tun, please let him do it to
you again." "Mer-tun, please let him do it to you a