Then the rescuer returned for Uncle Jepson. On his way to join Aunt Martha, Uncle Jepson, who had watched the rider narrowly during his talk with Willard, found time to whisper: "I had a mule once that wasn't any stubborner than Willard Masten." "You don't recollect how you cured him of it?" "Yes sir, I do. I thumped it out of him!" And Uncle Jepson's eyes glowed vindictively. "I reckon you've got a heap of man in you, sir," said the rider. He set Uncle Jepson down beside Aunt Martha and turned his pony back toward the river to get his remaining passenger. Masten waved authoritatively to him. "If it's just the same to you, my man, I'll assist Miss Ruth to land. Just ride over here!" The rider halted the pony and sat loosely in the saddle, gravely contemplating the driver across the sea of mud that separated them. "Why, you ain't froze yet, are you!" he said in pretended astonishment. "Your mouth is still able to work considerable smooth! An' so you want to ride my horse!" He sat, regarding the Easterner in deep, feigned amazement. "Why, Willard," he said when it seemed he had quite recovered, "Patches would sure go to sun-fishin' an' dump you off into that little ol' suck-hole ag'in!" He urged the pony on through the water to the buckboard and drew up beside the girl. Her face was crimson, for she had not failed to hear Masten, and it was plain to the rider that she had divined that jealously had impelled Masten to insist on the change of riders. Feminine perverseness, or something stronger, was in her eyes when the rider caught a glimpse of them as he brought his pony to a halt beside her. He might now have made the mistake of referring to Masten and thus have brought from her a quick refusal to accompany him, for he had made his excuse to Masten and to have permitted her to know the real reason would have been to attack her loyalty. He strongly suspected that she was determined to make Masten suffer for his obstinacy, and he rejoiced in her spirit. "We're ready for you now, ma'am." "Are you positively certain that Patches won't go to 'sunfishing' with me?" she demanded, as she poised herself on the edge of the buckboard. He flashed a pleased grin at her, noting with a quickening pulse the deep, rich color in her cheeks, the soft white skin, her dancing eyes--all framed in the hood of the rain cloak she wore. He reached out his hands to her, clasped her around the waist and swung her to the place on the saddle formerly occupied by Aunt Martha. If he held her to him a little more tightly than he had held Aunt Martha the wind might have been to blame, for it was blowing some stray wisps of her hair into his face and he felt a strange intoxication that he could scarcely control. And now, when she was safe on his horse and there was no further danger that she would refuse to ride with him, he gave her the answer to her question: "Patches wouldn't be unpolite to a lady, ma'am," he said quietly, into her hair; "he wouldn't throw you."