Under these circumstances, Moses thought it quite unnecessary to retain any self-control. He shrieked, he screamed, he wriggled; his piercing yells filled the air, and, fortunately for him, his being two hours too late brought assistance to his aid. Michael, the gardener, and a strong boy who helped him, rushed to the spot, and liberated the terrified lad, who, after all, was only frightened, for Rover had satisfied himself with tearing his jacket to pieces, not himself.
“Give me the b-basket,” sobbed Moses, “and let me g-g-go.”
“You may certainly go, you little tramp,” said Michael, “but Jim and me will keep the basket. I much misdoubt me if there isn’t mischief here. What’s the basket put hiding here for, and who does it belong to?”
“Old B-B-Betty,” gasped forth the agitated Moses.
“Well, let old Betty fetch it herself. Mrs Willis will keep it for her,” said Michael. “Come along, Jim, get to your weeding, do. There, little scamp, you had better make yourself scarce.”
Moses certainly look his advice, for he scuttled off like a hare. Whether he ever got his cherries or not, history does not disclose.
Michael, looking gravely at Jim, opened the basket, examined its contents, and, shaking his head solemnly, carried it into the house.
“There’s been deep work going on, Jim, and my Missis ought to know,” said Michael, who was an exceedingly strict disciplinarian. Jim, however, had a soft corner in his heart for the young ladies, and he commenced his weeding with a profound sigh.