“Do you mean the pony?”
“St. Peter!” ejaculated Joe.
“Well, what of St. Peter?”
“Oh, let me be off!” cried he, endeavouring to scramble to his feet. But he was most effectually prevented. For no sooner had he turned over on his hands and knees, than Glenn leaped astride of him.
“Now, if you will go, you shall carry me on your back, and I will pelt the secret out of you with my heels, as we travel!”
“Just let me get in the house and fasten the door, and I will tell you every word,” said Joe imploringly.
“Tell me now, or you shall remain in the snow all day long!” said Glenn, with a hand grasping each side of Joe’s neck.
“Oh, what shall I do? I can’t speak!” yelled Joe, trying outright, the large tear-drops falling from his nose and chin.
“You have not lost your voice, I should say, at all events,” implied Glenn, somewhat touched with pity at his man’s unequivocal distress, though he could scarce restrain his laughter when he viewed his grotesque posture. “What has become of your musket and hat?” he added.
“I left them both there,” said Joe, gradually becoming composed under the weight of his master.