Mr. Coleman's astonishment at the turn events had taken was so intense that he, as one might say, reclined for a moment in the bottom of the slough, with the water roaring in his ears and choking in his throat, before he gathered his wits together sufficiently to grope to his feet. By the time he had regained a wet uprightness, sputtered the muddy water out of his mouth, and blinked his eyes till vision returned, he found that he was alone in the slough. Daisy had driven the horse out on the farther shore, and was just getting out of the buggy. Mr. Coleman, watching in a fascinated way, with too much water still in his windpipe to speak, saw his late companion loop up the horse's lines in the backhand ring, knotting them so they would not fall and tangle the animal; then give the beast a smart little slap on the flank that started it off at a brisk trot down the trail. "Whoa, there!" Mr. Coleman found breath to exclaim, in a thin aqueous squeal, as he paddled splashingly and frantically toward land. But the horse, headed toward its evening meal of loft-dried hay and oats in the Toddburn livery stable, exchanged its trot for a canter, and kept on going. "You'll have to go some, to catch him," said Daisy, levelly and unsmiling; "he knows when he's well off." She kept her eyes steadily on Coleman, tightening her grip on the handle of the horsewhip which she had retained. "Ha-agh!" This is the nearest possible phonetic representation of the sound which came from the man's throat, as he jumped at her. But Daisy was alert and strong and full of fight. She stepped back and swung the horsewhip. The sharp impact of the lash plucked the skin from the centre of Coleman's right cheek. Returning "backhanded," the whip raised a weal along the left side of his face, extending from mouth to ear. Coleman stopped, straightened, and put his hand to his cheek, down which the blood was running. "So you were going to hit me, were you?" flashed Daisy, breathless and sparkling. "You're _some_ man!" There is something salutary and restorative about the rod--that corrective instrument recommended by Solomon the Wise. Perhaps it is less the sting than the shame--although one must admit that both must go together, to produce the effect. Dexie Coleman, all the bad humor gone out of him, sat down dejectedly on a boulder. For the moment, he forgot pose,--forgot that his face was muddy and bleeding, his hair rumpled, his clothes soaked and dripping--forgot himself altogether. "I'm a mean son of a gun, ain't I?" he said. Daisy looked at him a moment narrowly and coldly. But there was neither flutter of eyelash nor any other indication that he was "putting it on." The girl's face softened a little.