CHAPTER XIV
Ernest turned to the boy with the rifle who was standing guard over the wonderful, strange thing that had alighted in his father's meadow, and was satisfied. Cool, clear, honest blue eyes stared back and met his gaze fairly.
"Don't you be feared," said the boy. "They won't come apast that scratch. You kin trust me. Ma and Pa trusts me with the roan colt."
"The one you were riding?" asked Ernest.
"Naw, not that," the boy laughed. "You git on, less'n you want to answer four million questions. You kin leave her with me. They won't come apast that scratch, and I kin skeer 'em off with this. They know I kin shoot."
He patted the long, lean rifle lying along his arm, and Ernest knew that in truth he could not leave the airplane in safer hands.
He followed Bill and the farmer's family across the slope, Frank lounging along beside him. They did not talk. Frank staggered as he walked, he was so tired, and Ernest, who was accustomed to long flights, was silent too. The pain in his arm was about all he could bear, and he did not feel in the mood for talking to the fellow who had injured him. So they moved silently across the soft sod, the farmer and his wife talking busily to Bill. The two children and the three dogs ran and frolicked in the rear. From the distant second growth the herd gazed out, still suspicious. They had almost forgotten to chew their cuds!
The roly-poly farmer's wife gave them a feast. Home-cured ham and home-laid eggs and corn pone and jam and jelly and cake and molasses and all sorts of good things besides, including cream to drink—real cream, all blobby on the sides of the glass. Bill thought he would never get enough to eat, and even Frank consumed about enough for two boys. As soon as the meal was over, Ernest made Bill go and lie down on Webby's bed. Frank was given the narrow horsehair sofa in the stuffy parlor, but Ernest knew that Bill must sleep in an airy room, and the parlor had not been opened since the war of '60 to judge by the musty closeness of it. Ernest himself was in too much pain to rest so he sat and talked aviation with the farmer for a few minutes and then they went down to the lot to take a look at the machine. The farmer's wife had stacked her dishes and was there before them.
Not even his mother was allowed inside the scratch by the important and faithful Webby. He stood guard beside the machine, enjoying the proudest moment of his life. In after years, when Webby, goaded on by that fateful landing, had gained the highest rung of fame's ladder, his triumph was little compared to that clear sunset time in the pasture when he stood guard over the wonder-car that had come from the sky with its pilot and passengers scarcely older than himself.
When Ernest approached, the crowd surged forward, but Webby sternly drove them back.