The walk of the two boys took them to one of the broad highways leading to the residential portion of the city.
The highway was lined with carriages coming and going, and bicycles were likewise numerous.
"I wouldn't mind a ride on a wheel myself," observed Don. "Those fellows seem to enjoy it thoroughly," and he pointed to four boys, all in uniform, who were riding wheels which were peculiarly striped in red, white and blue.
"They carry the flag colors," smiled his chum. "They must be patriotic."
"And what real, live American lad isn't patriotic, Bob?"
"True for you. If we—Hullo, what does that mean?"
Bob broke off short and pointed up the broad highway. Around a bend a fine carriage had appeared, drawn by a team of coal black steeds.
For some reason not now apparent, the team had taken their bits in their teeth and were running away at topmost speed.
The turnout had two seats, but its sole occupant was a little girl not over six or seven years of age—a pale, blue-eyed creature, with yellow curls streaming down her back.
"Help! stop the bad, bad horses!" sobbed the little girl, as the tears of terror ran down her cheeks.
