There was just room for the Bluebird to squeeze through under the bridge, and beyond it lay a good-sized town.
“I think I can get some one there to take Sammy home, together with Billy Bumps,” said Mr. Howbridge. “We’ll try after supper, and then we must see about tying up for the night.”
The houseboat attracted considerable attention as it was slowly drawn along the canal, which passed through the middle of the town. A stop was made while Mr. Howbridge instituted inquiries as to the possibility of sending Sammy back to Milton, and arrangements were made with a farmer who agreed to hitch up after supper and deliver the goat and the boy where they belonged.
“Well, anyhow, I’m glad I’m going to stay to supper,” said Sammy, extracting what joy he could from the situation that had turned against him.
The Bluebird came to rest at a pleasant place in the canal just outside the town, and there supper was served by Mrs. MacCall. A bountiful one it was, too, and after Hank had had his, apart from the others, he confided to Neale, as he went back to the mules:
“She’s the beatenist cook I ever see!”
“Good, you mean?” asked Neale, smiling.
“The best ever! I haven’t eaten victuals like ’em since I had a home and a mother, and that’s years and years back. I’m glad I struck this job.”
In the early evening the farmer came for Sammy and the goat, a small crate, that once had held a sheep, being put in the back of the wagon for Billy’s accommodation.
“Well, maybe you’ll take me next time, when I’ve growed bigger,” suggested the boy, as he waved rather a sad farewell to his friends.