The rain continued for about two hours, and when I returned to my horse he was absolutely the homeliest and oddest-colored brute I ever saw. The paint had run down his legs in streaks, and had formed a combination of colors more easily imagined than described. On arriving at Toledo I put my horse in a sale stable and ordered him to be sold. The proprietor looked us both over with much suspicion, and asked from which direction I had come. "From the west, sir," I answered. "From the far west?" he still further inquired. "You'd think so, if you'd followed me," I replied. "Well, what in the d----l ails your horse?" "Well, sir, he fell in the Chicago River," was my answer. Stepping to the animal, he rubbed his fingers over the rough, sticky hair, and then placing them to his nose, said:---- "Don't smell bad,--looks's though he'd been dyed." "Well, I wish to ---- he'd died before I ever saw him." Upon registering at a hotel to await results, I met an old acquaintance who was boarding there, and explained to him my predicament. He said he didn't think I would ever be able to sell my horse with all that daub on him, unless I explained just how I had traded for him. I replied that to make a full statement would surely result in a writ of replevin being served and the horse being taken from me. A couple of days later, my friend came rushing into the hotel and informed me that two men, one a policeman, were at the barn carefully scrutinizing the horse. I waited a few moments, when I walked leisurely to the barn, and after paying for his keeping, ordered him saddled, and immediately started out on the jump. Just as I passed from the barn I noticed a man coming on the run towards me. I put spurs to the animal, when the man yelled, "Halt! halt!" but I wasn't halting, and kept on down the street, looking back at the gentleman as my horse sped rapidly along. He then yelled: "Stop that man! stop that man!" [Illustration: "STOP THAT MAN! STOP THAT MAN."] I kept looking back, and had just begun to congratulate myself on my success, when suddenly my horse came to a full stop, and I landed forward astride his neck, hanging on by his mane. I then discovered a large policeman holding him by the bit. I dismounted, and as the gentleman who had been running behind came up to where we were, the police officer said to him: "Mr. Cavanaugh, what shall I do with the horse?" "Take him back to the stable, for the time being," was the answer. I then said: "I now recognize you as the gentleman and detective whom I was introduced to a few weeks ago by an acquaintance from Bronson, Mich., at which place I believe you formerly resided, and where I married my wife." "Sure enough," he answered. "Your wife and I were school children together. Johnston is your name." "Yes, sir." "Well, great Heavens! you're no horse-thief!" "Well, who in thunder said I was? I am sure I never said so," was my reply. "What have you painted this horse for?" he inquired.