“You row,” shouted Johnny to Asta, “and I’ll hold it.”
While Asta was changing her place in the boat, the goat kicked its liveliest, and the boat tipped so far over that it seemed as if it must capsize the next instant. Before they knew it, Pilot Stiansen was right beside them in his big fishing boat.
“You wild youngsters! If ever I saw your equal!” he grumbled behind his red-brown beard. “Sit still, I tell you!”
Pilot Stiansen produced a piece of rope and, reaching over, tied the goat’s legs together, then took the children’s boat in tow and towards shore they went. The idea of their being towed! What a way to be treated! They would have got along beautifully if that meddlesome old pilot hadn’t come and spoiled all their pleasure. Perhaps he would tattle about it, too.
“Go home now, like good children,” said Pilot Stiansen, as he untied the goat’s legs. “And don’t do anything like this again.”
“Pooh! He thought we would drown,” said Asta. “Silly!”
Johnny Blossom also was indignant over the pilot’s interference with their fine plan for feeding the goat. But it wasn’t the stupidest thing in the world to tie the goat’s legs together. In the afternoon they would do that, and Pilot Stiansen needn’t trouble himself any more over their affairs.
Johnny Blossom hastened to get Mother’s sharpest scissors—the big shiny ones—for he intended to cut some long strips of stout cloth to tie the goat’s legs with. Johnny cut and cut. Suddenly the big blades slipped, caught Johnny’s little finger, and before he knew it, had cut the tip of it clean off! It hurt awfully—oh, well—not so terribly after all; but my, oh, my! how it bled! Johnny Blossom bound his not over-clean handkerchief around it, but still the blood came. Now it was all over his trousers. Perhaps he had better hide until it stopped.
“Mother! Mother!” shrieked Asta. “Here’s a piece of a finger, with your big shears, lying on the attic stairs!”
“It is John’s,” said Mother instantly and with the utmost certainty.