“Flies tease him,” said Tom apologetically. “Poor old Sol!”
“Don’t touch him!” cried Dick, “or he’ll kick you.”
“Poor old Sol!” said Tom again, and this time he approached the donkey’s head.
“Don’t touch him, I tell you! He’ll bite if you do! He’s in a nasty temper because I would put on his bridle, and I was obliged to persuade him to be quiet with a pitchfork handle.”
“What a shame!” said Tom.
“Shame, eh! Just you look here,” cried Dick, and down one of his coarse worsted stockings, he displayed a great bruise on his white leg. “He did that three days ago, and he tried to do it again this morning, only I was too quick for him.”
“Haugh! haugh–h–haugh!” sighed Solomon in a most dismal tone.
“Says he’s sorry for it!” cried Tom, grinning.
“Oh, very well then, I’m sorry I hit him with the pitchfork handle. I say, Tom, I gave him such a whop!”
“Where did you hit him?”