“Hallo!  What’s the matter?” he asked cheerily.

I explained.  Being merciful, I spared Marigold and threw the blame on the dog and on the County Council for allowing the roads to get into such a filthy condition.

“That’s all right,” said Boyce.  “We’ll soon fix you up.  First we’ll get you into my car.  Then Marigold and I will slue this one round, and then we’ll send him a tow.”

Marigold nodded and approached to lift me out.

Then, what happened next, happened in the flash of a few breathless seconds.  There was the dull thud of hoofs.  A scared bay thoroughbred, coming from Godbury, galloping hell for leather, with a dishevelled boy in khaki on his back.  The boy had lost his stirrups; he had lost his reins; he had lost his head.  He hung half over the saddle and had a death grip on the horse’s mane.  And the uncontrolled brute was thundering down on us.  There was my infernal car barring the narrow road.  I remember bracing myself to meet the shock.  An end, thought I, of Duncan Meredyth.  I saw Boyce leap aside like a flash and appear to stand stock-still.  The next second I saw Marigold semaphore a few yards in front of the car and then swing sickeningly at the horse’s bit; and then the whole lot of them, Marigold, horse and rider, come down in a convulsive heap on the greasy road.  To my intense relief I saw Marigold pick himself up and go to the head of the plunging, prostrate horse.  In a moment or two he had got the beast on his feet, where he stood quivering.  It was a fine, smart piece of work on the part of the old artilleryman.  I was so intent on his danger that I forgot all about Boyce:  but as soon as the three crashed down, I saw him run to assist the young subaltern who had rolled himself clear.

“By Jove, that was a narrow shave!” he cried cordially, giving him a hand.

“It was indeed, sir,” said the young man, scraping the mud off his face.  “That’s the second time the brute has done it.  He shies and bucks and kicks like a regular devil.  This time he shied at a steam lorry and bucked my feet out of the stirrups.  Everybody in the squadron has turned him down, and I’m the junior, I’ve had to take him.”  He eyed the animal resentfully.  “I’d just like to get him on some grass and knock hell out of him!”

“I’m glad to see you’re not hurt,” said Boyce with a smile.

“Oh, not a bit, sir,” said the boy.  He turned to Marigold.  “I don’t know how to thank you.  It was a jolly plucky thing to do.  You’ve saved my life and that of the gentleman in the car.  If we had busted into it, there would have been pie.”  He came to the side of the car.  “I think you’re Major Meredyth, sir.  I must have given you an awful fright.  I’m so sorry.  My name is Brown.  I’m in the South Scottish Horse.”

He had a courteous charm of manner in spite of his boyish desire to appear unshaken by the accident.  A little bravado is an excellent thing.  I laughed and held out my hand.