Frank worked on a country road that was rather winding, and the next morning found him not over half a mile from where he had met the boy. A good-sized farmhouse was in sight and he rode up to this to see if the folks there would purchase any of his wares.
He was just talking to the lady of the place when a small boy came rushing up, his face full of terror.
“Mother, Jack’s crazy!” he screamed.
“Crazy?” queried the lady.
“Yes, crazy. He’s out in the barn, throwing around the pitchfork and screaming like thunder!”
Alarmed by this statement, the lady of the house ran out to the barn, with Frank at her heels, and the little lad following.
“Villain, beware of my wrath!” came from the barn, which declaration was accompanied by a violent thrust of the pitchfork into a neighboring pile of hay.
“Oh!” whispered the mother. “Yes, he is certainly crazy!”
“I shall kill you, base rascal that you are!” went on the boy in the barn, and again he thrust out wildly with the pitchfork.
“Oh, Jack! that I should see you crazy!” went on the lady.