“Whoa, thar! ye fool-critters!” his nearest approach to a “swear-word.”
Thomas, himself, came lumbering along as heavily, but much less swiftly, than the runaway pair.
Cricket and Eunice and Hilda were making the dust fly with their brisk little heels, as they, too, shouted in steady chorus, “Whoa, Judge! Whoa, Cap’n! gee! haw!”
Will and Archie came on at a steady run, adding their yells to the uproar, and making the terrified oxen sure that they were pursued by demons.
Kenneth’s steady shrieks had not lessened in volume, but he was getting hoarse, and his sobbing breaths came shorter.
The cart was firm and strong, with closely fitted boards, so the poor child was now sitting in quite a tossing sea of cider. The fast-emptying barrel reeled more and more, and the frightened baby beat it with both hands.
Now the oxen were well on the home stretch. They had reached the short steep hill by the farmer’s house. The farmer’s wife, hearing the shrieks, had run out on the little bridge, and now saw the cart come in sight at the top of the hill.
She caught off her blue checked apron, and ran forward flourishing it, and screaming to her husband,—
“’Gustus John! ’Gustus John! Jedge and Cap’n are runnin’ away!”
’Gustus John appeared at the bars.