THE BULL-FIGHT.
T was Saturday afternoon,—time of blessed memory to boys,—and we were free for a ramble after huckleberries; and, with our pails in hand, were making the best of our way to a noted spot where that fruit was most abundant.
Sam was with us, his long legs striding over the ground at a rate that kept us on a brisk trot, though he himself was only lounging leisurely, with his usual air of contemplation.
“Look 'ere, boys,” he suddenly said, pausing and resting his elbow on the top of a rail-fence, “we shall jest hev to go back and go round by Deakin Blodgett's barn.”
“Why so?” we both burst forth in eager tones.
“Wal, don't ye see the deakin's turned in his bull into this 'ere lot?”
“Who cares?” said I. “I ain't afraid.”