Not the least bit disconcerted, Billy marched the length of the track, and had drawn up in front of the grandstand, lining up his motley following, each with an attendant close at his head, for a final flourish, when a little fellow standing near the grandstand shouted:
“It’s Billy! It’s my Billy!” and escaping from his father’s arms, ran pell-mell to him, threw his arms around his neck, and then Billy underwent such a petting as never goat had before.
“Now you won’t think such bad things of my Billy, will you, mama,” Dick petitioned, as his mother hurried up. “See, isn’t it a pretty bow he won?”
“Well, well,” conceded Mrs. Treat, reluctantly, “he may be all right, after all.”
“I think we’ve all had excitement enough for this Fair time. Suppose we escape all of the palavering that will surely be lavished on us, and start for home,” proposed Mr. Treat.
“All right,” agreed the boys, “and we’ll take Billy right along. We don’t want him to give us the slip. He’s too valuable a goat to lose, and we must take great care of him.”
Slowly they made their way to the automobile, for however much they might wish to slip quietly away, the crowds thought differently, and pressed about closely, everyone eager to get a glimpse of this very wonderful goat.
“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for him,” offered a fakir, the proprietor of one of the side shows on the midway. “He’d do a dandy act I have in mind. A thousand dollars, I say. Take it?” he questioned.
“No, nor two thousand,” answered Tom emphatically. “Why, this goat is the best goat in the world, I’d have you know, and five thousand couldn’t buy him to-day.”