“What a mess!” he said to himself. He looked down at the bull, his anger mounting. “Go away, you big dope!”
That did no good either. Jim remained uncomfortably in the tree. To make matters worse, bees began to buzz around entirely too close to his head. Holding on to the tree with one hand and swatting at bees with the other was not pleasant exercise. Suddenly he remembered he hadn’t closed the orchard gate behind him. If the bull did wander away, he would be perverse enough to head straight for the gate. The yard gate was open too, so the way onto the road was clear. Once he was out on the road there was no telling where the animal might stray. Now Jim was torn between hoping the bull would go away and wanting him to stay. Either way, he decided he was in a pickle. His parents would either come home to find him trapped in the apple tree or else would find the bull loose and strayed to parts unknown.
The thought of Colonel Flesher came like a ray of light. The stock buyer was supposed to arrive about three o’clock. If the bull were still standing guard beneath the tree, the colonel could come to the rescue and all would be well. Jim shifted his perch slightly and hoped the stock buyer would arrive soon. It seemed as if he had been in the tree for hours. He reached in his pocket but his hand found nothing. With a horrible sinking feeling he realized his precious watch was gone. It must have bounced out of his pocket while he was racing for the tree. With an effort he kept back the tears. He looked back along his recent path, hoping to catch the glint of gold. There was nothing in sight but the new green grass. If the bull had trampled on it during his mad rush, the watch was probably broken and buried in the soft earth. Completely dejected now, Jim sat in the tree and mourned. It was certainly a heartbreaking day.
He was so deep in his misery that he did not notice a strange cavalcade coming over the hill until the creaking of wagon wheels and the neighing of a horse caused him to look up in surprise. The procession, which was nearing the yard gate, was so unusual and interesting that Jim forgot his woes and stared in excited curiosity. First there was the oddest wagon he had ever seen. It was a large wagon with a sort of house built on the chassis. The house had a flat roof which stuck out in front and overhung the driver’s seat, and the board sides contained two small windows. Initially Jim thought it was a ranch chuck wagon, for he had been reading Western stories; but then he changed his mind and decided it was more like a circus wagon or like the wagons he had seen in the movies used by traveling road troupes in the old days.
Seated on the high driver’s seat was an old man in a sombrero, whistling cheerfully and clucking to a team of huge black horses. The team was ambling along slowly, drawing the wagon with effortless ease. But what attracted Jim’s gaze most was the procession following the wagon. Strung out behind were at least twenty horses of all sizes and colors—big gray Percherons, medium-sized brown horses, sorrels, some dark bays, light grays and a few whites. Jim looked at each horse in turn until finally he came to the last in the string—a lean little mouse-colored horse whose small body contrasted oddly with the other broad-rumped work horses.
The fascinating cavalcade drew still nearer until it reached the gate. The driver gave a slight tug on one rein and the wagon started turning. Jim was so interested and delighted that he almost lost his seat in the tree. The strange wagon and all those horses were coming in their yard! Almost doubting his eyes, he saw the vehicle progress down the lane and come to a halt, the long string of horses bunching up behind the wagon until they too finally stopped. The old man climbed down from his high perch and looked around inquisitively. Seeing no one in the yard he started toward the house.
“There’s nobody home but me,” shouted Jim loudly.
The stranger turned around to look toward the orchard, and Jim got his first good view of the visitor. He was a tall stringy individual with a long gray handle-bar mustache that drooped from his upper lip and hid much of the lower part of his face. He was obviously a very old man, but there was nothing old about his movements nor the way his bright eyes searched in the direction from which the voice had come. He looked puzzled, for all he could see was apple blossoms.
“And where are you?” he asked.