e halter. For a
second, Dynamo's eyelids fluttered; then, unaccountably, his bull
pride rose up in him. He stopped midway of a bellow; his head went
down, his tail rose up--and he charged. The girl across the fence
gave a little scream. The youth, stepping aside with a quickness
marvelous considering the size of his frame, avoided the charge. As
Dynamo tore past him, he struck out--a mighty lash--with the halter.
The bull tore on until he smashed into a prune tree. The green fruit
flew like water splashing from a stone; and Dynamo checked his course,
turned again, began to paw and challenge as the preliminary to another
charge.

"Oh, let him go--please!" cried Eleanor. Whether he heard her or not
made little difference to the youth. Taking advantage of Dynamo's
slight hesitation, he sprang in close, caught him by the horn and the
tender, black nose; and back and forth, across the ruins of the prune
tree, which went flat at the first rally, they fought and tugged and
tossed. Through the agonized half-bellows of Dynamo, Eleanor caught a
slighter sound. Her champion was swearing! Raised a little above her
fears by the vicarious joy of fight, she took no offence at this; it
seemed part of the picture.

No one can account for the emotional processes of a bull. Just as
suddenly as it rose, Dynamo's courage evaporated. Once more was he
brother to the driven ox. He ceased to plant his fore feet; his bellow
became a moan; he gave backward; in one mighty toss, he threw off his
conqueror, turned, and galloped down the orchard with his tail curved
like a pretzel across his back. Behind him followed the youth, lashing
him with the halter as long as he could keep it up, pelting him with
rocks and clods as the retreat gained. So, in a cloud of dust, they
vanished into the Santa Clara road.

When Bertram Chester came back panting, to return the halter, Antonio
had arrived and was unhitching the bay mare from the buckboard.
Eleanor stood by the corral gate, her Panama hat fallen back from her
brown hair and a little of the excitement left in her grey eyes.
Bertram approached, grinning; he wore a swagger like that of a little
boy who has just turned a series of somersaults before the little
girls. Eleanor noticed this. Faintly--and in spite of the gratitude
she owed him for turning a neighborly service into a heroic deed--she
resented it. Also, Dynamo and Mr. Chester, between them, had wholly
ruined a good prune tree in the prime of