“Something has happened to Reginald!” exclaimed the Poet, and his long legs flew as he rushed to the rescue.
When Galatea and the Artist caught up with him, he was on his stomach half under the Red Ripper, tugging with all his might at one of Reginald’s hind legs. The pig’s squeals grew louder and more hopeless. Cleopatra, the colt, the cow, the bull-calf, and the goat, huddled together, looked on from a distance with expressions of wondering innocence. Napoleon barked furiously at the Poet’s waving legs. Gabriel came running up with a fence-rail on his shoulder. The Poet emerged, perspiring and baffled.
“The critter’s stuck, darn him!” said Gabriel. “We must lift the machine.”
He thrust one end of the rail under the Red Ripper’s frame. “Now, all together!”
The Poet and the Artist joined Gabriel with their shoulders under the rail, the machine rose an inch or two, and Reginald, choking a final squeal in his throat, scrambled out. At least three square inches of his back were ravished of their bristles. Not a particle of kink remained in Reginald’s tail. Straight for the barn he ran, emitting short grunts of relief and contrition.
“Great snakes!” exclaimed the Artist. “Look at that rear tire. There’s a hole in it you could throw a dog into.”
Nobody could offer any explanation, the bull-calf having forgotten all about it. The Artist’s eye suddenly lighted on the bent driving-levers, and for half a minute his language was far from polite.
“I warned you about Cleopatra,” said the Poet; “but you wouldn’t give the mare credit for sufficient intelligence to protect her personal interests.”
“Do you think, Arthur, that we will be able to whirl thirty miles and back in twenty-five minutes with a flat tire?” inquired Galatea innocently.
“Of course you can,” said the Poet solemnly. “The Red Ripper is such a perfect piece of mechanism that she can do it on three wheels.”