“There comes Frank now,” the prisoner of the tree exclaimed, he having a greater range of vision than the boy who sat astride of the rail fence.
“Got the farmer trailing along, I hope?” ventured Bones.
“Well, if he has, I don’t see him yet,” replied the other dejectedly. “Reckon I’m just a-goin’ to sit here all night.”
“I can get a squint at Frank now, Lanky; and, say, what’s he got in his hand?”
“Looks like a clothesline to me, Bones,” replied the other, without much enthusiasm in his voice. “I thought Frank was smarter than that. If he thinks he’s going to lasso this big bull with that rope and hold him even one minute he’s sure got another guess coming to him.”
“Now, you leave all that to Frank,” advised the other. “You’ve been goin’ with him long enough to know that he’s smart about getting up schemes; yes, and carryin’ ’em out, too. Wait and see what he says, Lanky, before you decide about eatin’ your supper on a limb.”
Frank came hurrying along and just as Lanky had said, he was carrying what seemed to be a coiled clothesline, for the rope was certainly made of cotton and seemed rather thin at that.
“Where’s Farmer Hobson, Frank?” asked the boy on the limb.
“Gone with a load of stuff to Columbia, and won’t be home till late to-night,” came the reply, as Frank arrived opposite the spot where the determined bull kept watch and ward over his prize.
“And hasn’t he got a man?” wailed Lanky, as though he began to feel that everything was conspiring against him.