"I don't know, constable," was the answer, given with a country twang that caused several spectators to smile. "I jest seen him comin' and I see he was headed for them people what's goin' to Europe, I expect. I didn't want their voyage spoiled, so I jest jumped at his head." "Well, you know how to do it, all right," said the second "constable," as the young farmer had called the policemen. "I ought to know how to handle horses," was the answer, as the youth relinquished the reins to the officer. "I've been among 'em all my life. I was brought up on a farm." He looked it, but there was something in his simple, manly face, and in the look of his honest blue eyes, that made one like him. "Good work, all right!" repeated the first officer. "I'll take your name, young fellow, for my report," and he drew out a notebook. "I'll also want to find out to whom the horse belongs, but I s'pose the truckman's license number will be a clue." "He's mine," broke in a voice, as a drayman pushed his way through the crowd. "Some boys got to fooling around him, and he started off. No damage done, I hope." "No," replied the policeman, "but you want to tie your animal after this. He might have hurt someone--probably would have if it hadn't been for this chap. What's your name?" he asked the young farmer. "Sandy Apgar." "And where do you live?" "On Oak Farm." "Never heard of the place," went on the officer, with a smile. "Oh, that's the name of our farm. It's jest outside the town of Beatonville, about forty miles back in Jersey." "Oh, Jersey!" laughed the officer. "No wonder! Well, there's your horse, truckman. And now I want your name." "Can I go, or do I have to appear in court?" asked Sandy Apgar. "I hope I don't, 'caused I'm in a hurry to git back to the farm. I've got a passel of work to do there, with the weather coming on the way it is. "No, I guess you won't have to go to court," laughed the policeman. "We're much obliged to you." "And so am I," added the truckman. "I haven't got any money to give you, because business is poor----" "Oh, that's all right," said Sandy with a generous wave of his hand. "I don't stop runaway horses for a livin'. I farm it." "If you ever want any carting done," went on the drayman, "you send for me, young feller, and it won't cost you a cent." "Guess you wouldn't want to do any cartin' as far as Beatonville," laughed Sandy. "Folks out there don't ever move--they jest die and are buried in the same place. And I guess this is my last trip to New York in a long while. I'm jest as much obliged though," and patting the nose of the now quieted horse, he moved off through the thinning crowd. But he was not to escape unnoticed. Mr. Pertell had learned, by a hasty talk with Russ, that the horse had been stopped just in time to avoid spoiling any of the film. Russ had continued to make the pictures and the first act of the new drama was a success. The other scenes would take place on board the chartered yacht.