Meantime, the horses plunged on, dragging the loaded sled over the rough road at a pace which still imperiled the little girl. Each moment she might be shaken from her hold and flung from the logs into the roadway. Should she fall, it was not likely that she would escape harm, as had Tim, the hackman. He had now struggled out of the drift unhurt, and came staggering along the track, shouting in futile fashion for his team to stop. Oddly enough, he had clung to the club all this time, and, reaching the bloody patch of snow where the dog and the lynx struggled, he set upon the big cat and beat it so about the head that it was very quickly dead. “Come on! Come on!” Tim shouted to the dog. “You ain’t got to stay here and growl at that critter no more. _Ketch them horses!_” Prince actually seemed to know what Tim meant. Sore and bleeding as he was, the dog did not halt even to lick his wounds. He dashed ahead, barking, and quickly overtook the sled. The horses were not going very fast now, but they were not minded to halt, for all of Tim’s shouting. Prince sprang at the nigh horse and seized its bridle rein. The team swerved out of the path, Prince hanging on and growling. The sled struck an obstruction and the team stopped. “Pitcher of George Washington! if that ain’t a smart dog, I never see one,” gasped Tim, panting and blowing. “Air ye hurt, Car’lyn May?” “I—I guess not, Mr. Timothy,” answered the little girl. “I never seen the beat of this in all my born days,” declared the man. “And that dog——” “Prince is just the very _best_ dog!” Carolyn May affirmed. “Oh, Mr. Timothy, take me down, quick! Poor Princey is all bloody; he must be hurt!” “He is hurt some. That lynx raked him once, I ’low,” returned Tim. “But he’ll be all right when ye git him home and put something on the scratches. My goodness! what an exciting time! I never did see the beat of it!” This statement Tim continued to repeat all the way to The Corners. He set Carolyn May back on the load again and hoisted Prince up with her, but he walked himself beside the team. “Ain’t goin’ to take no more risks. Pitcher of George Washington! I guess not. Dunno what your Uncle Joe and Aunty Rose’ll say to me.” The story lost nothing in the telling when Tim, the hackman, and Carolyn May both related it at the Stagg homestead. And poor Prince’s wounds spoke louder than words. “Ain’t been a wildcat in this county afore in five year,” declared Tim. “And I’m sartain sure there never was one here more savage.” When Uncle Joe saw Tim in the village and heard about the adventure he hastened home to make sure that his little niece had received no injury. Prince was enthroned on an old quilt beside the range. Aunty Rose had herself washed his wounds—though she admitted being afraid of his savage-looking teeth—and had put some healing balsam on them. The dog, evidently enjoying his role of invalid, looked up at Mr. Stagg and slapped his tail on the floor.