"Whoa, whoa!" yelled the little boy constantly, but he might as well have called "Get app," for Frisky was going so fast now that poor little Freddie's hands were all but bleeding from the rough rope.
"Look out, Freddie! Let go!" called Aunt Sarah as she saw Frisky heading for the apple tree.
The next minute Frisky made a dash around the tree, once, then again, winding the rope as she went, and throwing Freddie out with force against the side of the terrace.
"Oh," Freddie moaned feebly.
"Are you dead?" cried Flossie, running up with tears in her eyes.
"Oh," moaned the boy again, turning over with much trouble as Aunt Sarah lifted him.
"Oh," he murmured once more, "oh—catch—Frisky!"
"Never mind her," Aunt Sarah said, anxiously. "Are you hurt, dear!"
"No—not—a bit. But look! There goes Frisky! Catch her!"
"Your poor little hands!" Flossie almost cried, kissing the red blisters. "See, they're cut!"