BILLY was close beside Mr. Watson’s chair, that gentleman sitting under a big elm, his chair tipped back against its trunk, a newspaper in his hands, when a stranger drove into the yard in a high-powered, bright red roadster. He stopped the car and coming up to Mr. Watson, said:
“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Watson?”
“You have,” Mr. Watson replied. “What can I do for you?”
“I have come to see if I can buy that fine looking goat beside you.”
“I fear you cannot. We are very fond of this goat, and he has been a great pet with us for years. He has been away from us for three years but has just returned. Where he was and with whom I have no way of finding out. All I know is that one day he disappeared and three years after that returned. He is a most surprisingly smart goat.”
“If you do not know where he has been all that time, I think I know about part of those three years.”
“You mean to tell me you think you have seen this goat before—while he was away from my farm?”
“I certainly do, and what is more, I think I can prove it. Have you ever felt deep down his hair, around his neck?”
“Why, no, I never had any occasion to do that.”