The Irish youth saw his friend, who was pedaling swiftly along the road, glance over his shoulder at the approaching runaway. Then Barney held his breath, wondering what Frank would do, but feeling that he was bound to make some desperate attempt to stop the horse. Frank was pedaling along at high speed when the runaway reached his side. He swerved toward the horse, crying to the girl: “Hold fast, if he swings sideways suddenly! Don’t let him pitch you out of the saddle.” She nodded that she understood. She realized that this daring young cyclist was going to try to check the horse. Frank was close to the animal’s head, and then Barney saw him reach out swiftly and grasp the bit. A moment later Merriwell was torn from the saddle and carried along, dangling at the head of the runaway. “Hurro!” shouted Barney. “It’s just loike th’ b’y! It’s niver a bit is he afraid av anything at all, at all!” With a death grip, Frank clung to the bit, knowing he might receive fatal injuries beneath the feet of the horse if his hold was broken. With his other hand he reached up and obtained a hold. He lifted his feet so they did not touch the ground, and, within three seconds, the speed of the runaway slackened. Then, still clinging, Frank talked to the horse softly, soothingly, reassuringly. His words were snatched out sometimes, sometimes broken, but there was nothing in the sound of his voice to add to the fears of the frightened animal. Instead, there was something to calm and quiet the frantic creature. “Hold fast!” he again called to the girl. Then the horse was turned from the road, was swept about in a complete circle, and by the time it again faced in the direction it had been running, it was brought to a stop. “Jump down quickly,” directed Frank, as he saw the pursuing man come thundering nearer and nearer. “This horse will act bad when he comes up.” The girl obeyed. Down from the saddle she slipped to the ground, losing no time in getting away from the prancing horse. Up came the man, flushed of face and shaking with excitement. He gave a yank at the bit that fairly flung the black gelding upon its haunches, and he hoarsely cried: “That confounded beast ought to be shot through the head!” At the sound of the man’s voice the horse Frank was holding showed every symptom of fear, making a sudden attempt to break away. Merriwell spoke soothingly to the creature, holding fast to the bit with a firm, steady hand, and patting its neck. “It’s not the horse,” was his thought, “it’s the man who ought to be shot!” “You are not harmed, are you, Iva?” somewhat anxiously asked the man, addressing the girl. “No,” she answered, her voice showing the least trace of agitation; “thanks to the brave action of this young stranger, I am not.” At this the horseman scowled fiercely on Frank.