“I want him! I want him! My throat’s hurted me drefful, an’ I want Johnnie-goat. I want him—up—here!”
“Great Scott, Zaidie! stop howling. Let’s have him up, Meg. Anything for a diversion.”
“But, Don! the goat up here? We can’t.”
“In the bright lexicon of youth, there’s no such word as ‘can’t.’ I’ll whistle down the speaking-tube to Sarah to entice him into the area, and I’ll go down and bring him up somehow. He can’t do any harm, and if it quiets the kidlet for a moment, it’s worth trying. Hollo, there, Sarah!”
Sarah responded, and the order was given. Zaidie stopped sniffling, and watched the proceedings eagerly from the window.
Sarah—much amazed, but too well trained to question any order of Master Don’s, however peculiar—ran out to induce Johnnie-goat, by every blandishment in her power, to enter the basement door. But wary Johnnie-goat, much more accustomed to being driven away from doors by the application of broom-sticks than being politely entreated to enter, suspected treachery, and backed off, moving his lowered head from side to side.
The whole “mumpy” tribe eagerly watched the manœuvres from above. Sarah would approach him with an indifferent, abstracted air, as if she didn’t see him at all, and then would suddenly make a grasp at his horns. Johnnie-goat would stand with an equally abstracted gaze as she came nearer; then, at the last instant, up would go his heels skittishly, and off he would go, to a convenient distance, and again await Sarah’s approach. She displayed banana-skins temptingly, and drew him, by means of them, almost to the area door, when the same performance would be repeated. All the time she kept up an uncomplimentary tirade under her breath, mingled with her enticing words to him.
“Come, Johnnie! Johnnie! good Johnnie! Oh, yer dirty blackguard! yer wretched spalpeen, you! It’s a clubbin’ with a big shillaly I’d be after givin’ you! Come here, yer good goaty! Come and see the purty little gal what’s waitin’ fur ye! Oh, the capers! takin’ that son-of-a gun up-stairs! You murtherin’ wretch, I’d drown yer fur a cint! Come here, good old goaty! come to Sarah! Ach, murther, howly saints! git yer evil eye off me!” as Johnnie suddenly reared and waltzed around on his hind legs, in a way peculiar to goats, presenting a low-bent head threateningly in her direction.
“Get hold of him now, Sarah,” shouted Donald, throwing up the window for a moment. “He won’t really hurt you. Grab his horns!”
Here Marjorie slammed down the window indignantly. Sarah, quaking with terror, but feeling she must obey Mr. Donald though the heavens fell, made a desperate rush and really grabbed the threatening horns with a heavy hand. She was big and strong, and as soon as she actually touched him, her Irish blood was up for a scrimmage. Even Johnnie-goat, to his own intense surprise and indignation, was as wax in her hands. Tucking his head well under her arm, by main strength she dragged him along, protesting with all his legs, to the area door. By that time Johnnie had recovered his presence of mind, and then ensued a tremendous racket that brought the waitress to the rescue.