“Did he walk up the steps?” asked Violet. “I don’t see how he could.”
“Oh, he’s a great little colt,” said Mr. Armstrong proudly. “He does all sorts of tricks. One day he got out of the pasture and walked right into the kitchen where my wife was making a cake. She thought I was coming in with my big boots on, so she didn’t turn around, and the colt put his nose on the back of her neck. She—Ha! Ha! She thought I was kissing her. Oh, ho! ho!” and the farmer laughed heartily.
Then he led Bonnie Boy down the steps, the little colt making no trouble at all about treading on them. He was taken back to the pasture where his mother was waiting for him, doubtless wondering what had become of him. It was found that there was a break in the fence, just large enough for the colt to squeeze through, but not large enough for his mother, or she would have followed him.
The colt had wandered about, coming up to the rear of the house, and had then made his way to the front, going up the steps of the milk platform, and so into the big straw-filled truck, which, perhaps, he thought was a new kind of barn.
“Well, now we’d better be traveling,” said Mr. Bunker, when the little colt was taken away. “We don’t want to be late in meeting mother in Westfield.”
Once again the six little Bunkers were on their way.
They were soon at Westfield, a small country town, and when the big truck drew up in front of the only restaurant in the place there was the touring car, with Mrs. Bunker and Norah sitting in it, waiting.
“We got here first, and we would have been here before but I had a puncture and we had to change a tire,” said Mrs. Bunker.
“That’s too bad,” remarked her husband.
“Did you have any adventures?” asked Mrs. Bunker.