I did hear some sound which resembled distant thunder.  A moment later I saw the top of that plaid cap bob above the hill.  Then I saw the shoulders of that red coat, and the huge figure of the railroad magnate fairly shot into view.

He was running as fast as his stout legs would carry him, waving his club and occasionally looking quickly to his rear.

I knew in an instant what was the matter.

“What is papa running for?” exclaimed Miss Harding.  That question was speedily answered.

“Run!  Run, boys!” he yelled as he plowed down that slope.  “Run like hell; he’s after us!”

Carter and Chilvers took one glance and the three of them came tearing down that hill.

There came into view the lowered head and humped shoulders of a Holstein bull close on the trail of the lumbering millionaire.  The women screamed.

“He will be killed; he will be killed!” moaned Mrs. Harding.  “Oh, do something to save him, Mr. Smith; please do something!”

I am rather proud of my generalship at that critical moment.  I have a certain amount of wit in an emergency, and luckily it did not fail me.  It is not an easy matter to head off an enraged bull in an open field, but I saw a chance and took it.

[Illustration:  “Run!  Run, boys!”]

I grasped Miss Harding and fairly threw her to the ground.

“Jump!  Jump!” I yelled to the others.

Mrs. Chilvers and Miss Dangerfield instantly obeyed, but Mrs. Harding was too terrified to comprehend my orders.  Her eyes were fixed on her husband, and she neither saw nor heard me.  There was not a second to lose.

I swung that heavy touring-car in a backward curve, so as to face the fence over which Mr. Harding had climbed.  Turning on full speed I headed for it.

The powerful machine quivered for the fraction of a second and then leaped from the roadway.  There was a crash of splintered fence posts and boards, a glimpse of flying lumber, and we were in the meadow.

It takes some time to tell this, but it was not long in happening.  When we went through that fence Harding was probably seventy yards away and to our left.  The bull was not twenty feet back of him and gaining rapidly at every jump.  I saw nothing of Carter or Chilvers.

Harding had dropped his club and was running desperately.  I feared every moment that he would fall.  He was headed for the pond, but never would have reached it.

“Drop down!  Drop down!” I shouted to Mrs. Harding.

We went over a hummock where a drain-pipe had been laid and I thought we were done for.  The shock hurled Mrs. Harding to the floor.  Beyond that point the ground was hard and fairly smooth and our speed became terrific.

[Illustration:  “Then I struck the bull”]

The distance between the bull and his intended victim had decreased to so small a space that I despaired of cutting him off.  I cannot tell exactly what happened.  I only know that I kept my eye on that bull as religiously as one attempts to obey the golf mandate, “keep your eye on the ball.”