“And I’ll take my fire engine,” said Freddie. “That might get smashed.” He hauled his toy out from amid the valises and packages, and as he set it on the floor he went on: “It squirts real water, Mr. Watson, and if your barn gets on fire I can help put it out for you.”
“That’s right kind of you,” said the farmer, trying not to laugh, for Freddie was very much in earnest. “I hope my barn won’t get on fire, though.”
Just then came a tremendous crash of thunder, following closely after a bright glare of lightning.
Mr. Watson went over near Zeek Trimmer, who stood just inside the door, to look out and see if the lightning had done any damage to his farm buildings or the house, which the children could see through the rain, a short distance away.
“I guess that was the last crack, and the worst,” said the farmer. “It will stop in a little while, and then we can go to the house. Mrs. Watson has been expecting you, but she never thought you would come in a downpour like this.”
While the older folks stood in the middle of the barn floor, talking, the children wandered about the big barn. They always liked to come to the country, especially to a farm, for there were so many strange bits of machinery to see and so many things to do about a barn.
“Mr. Watson! Mr. Watson!” called Freddie, who had put his toy fire engine down in what he thought a safe place.
“Yes, little man, what is it?” asked the farmer.
“Could we please slide down on your hay—I mean Flossie and I?” Freddie asked. “We like to slide on hay, and we haven’t done it for a long time.”
“Slide all you like,” Mr. Watson kindly gave permission. “That is, if your mother says so,” he added, with a look at Mrs. Bobbsey.