As acre after acre of turf unrolled ahead, the too-live-stock loosened to the going. Pape put the pinto to an emulative gallop. Only a glance to one side did he spare when the shrill of a whistle located the fat figure of Pudge O’Shay, both hands and feet animated by a frenzy of outraged authority. “No Queer Questioner stops for a quail—quit your tooting at us!” Pape shouted as, far from keeping “off the grass,” he urged his mount to deeper digs and an appreciable increase of speed. At sound of hoof-beats behind, he turned, thinking to reinstruct the puncher. Instead, he saw that Irene, luckier than he in crossing the road and Mall, was closing up. The red roses still clutched in her waving hand bespoke excitement’s forgetfulness. The steer changed his direction, although not at order of the jumping-jack in police blue. From the traverse road and out over the meadow directly toward the outlaw a second woman rider had dashed. A shout from behind her announced a male escort who followed, but could not detain her. Straight on she came, a slim streak of black and white that blent in the color of courage. And as she came, a single-syllabled cry from before greeted her—a salute from one man’s heart of fear-full gratitude. “Jane!” Deeds, then, did speak for his self-selected one! The climacteric impulse of woman to follow her man, to do and dare for him, if need be to die with him had conquered her tutored calm in this emergency. The repose of her face was a mask. Her spirit now dared his own. Why? Why not? Thank God, _why not_? The rider behind her was Mills Harford. That Pape had seen at second glance. But any hope of him as an active aide in recapturing the run-amuck was gainsaid by his efforts to get the girl out of the chase. He caught up with her, argued with her, tried himself to turn about her mount by force. Only at threat of her crop did he drop the grasped bridle rein. Pape decided if possible to draft him into service against the bovine enemy. “Spread out and turn the steer!” he shouted across the meadow. “Head him this way so I can rope him.” Harford looked around as though he had heard. Then, instead of following directions, he rode full tilt after the beast, brandishing his hat and shouting in _a_ manner calculated to continue the stampede. Whether he had misunderstood through ignorance of range practice or was deliberately attempting to make more serious the predicament of one for whom he had that day shown such cordial dislike, Pape had no time to ponder. He swung Polkadot into an oblique course on the chance of preventing the runaway’s escape into that roughest cross-section of the park which begins just north of the Seventy-second-Street “parallel.” The syncopated patter of hoofs just behind him told that Irene, too, had swerved and was carrying on. Ahead, Jane urged her mount after Harford and his ill-conceived move.