“Yes, sir,” returned Clare, and laid hold of Nimrod’s horn. The animal yielded, and turned away with him. The farmer came nearer, and put his arm round the boy’s neck. The boy rubbed his cheek against the arm.
“I’m sorry I struck you, Clare!” faltered the big man.
“Oh, never mind, sir! That was long ago!” answered the boy.
“Tell me how you’ve been getting on.”
“Pretty well, sir! But I want to tell you first how it is I’m here with Nimrod. Only it would be better to put him somewhere before I begin.”
“It would,” agreed the farmer; and between them, with the enticements of a pail of water and some fresh-cut grass, they got him into a shed, where they hoped he would forget the proximity of the usurper, and, with the soothing help of his supper, go to sleep.
Then Clare told his story. Mr. Goodenough afterward asseverated that, if he had not known him for a boy that would not lie, he would not have believed the half of it.
“Come, Abdiel!” said Clare, the moment he ended—and would have started at once.
“Won’t you have something after your long ride?” said the farmer.
Clare looked down at his clothes, and laughed. The farmer knew what he meant, and did not ask him into the house.