Just as the Indians had the last captive snugly fastened in, Peter, with Terry harnessed to the “market wagon,” a light wagon that was used to take the butter and eggs over to town in, came down the drive from the barn.
“Whoa!” said Peter to Terry.
“Oh, Mr. Peter!” The four little Blossoms rushed out to greet him. “Where are you going? Can’t we go? Where’s Jerry?”
Peter surveyed the four Indians gravely.
“Well, as I’m going up in the mountain, I guess we won’t meet any one who’ll be scared to death,” he said slowly. “So I don’t know but perhaps you might hop in. Jerry? I left him in the stable. This wagon goes with one horse.”
As the children scrambled in, Peter thought of something.
“Like as not Miss Polly’ll be back before we 119 are,” he observed. “She might miss all four of you if no one’s about. Jud!”
“Here!” shouted Jud from the back garden.
He came to the gate in the hedge.
“Jud, if Miss Polly comes home and doesn’t find any children, just tell her they’re with me and that we’ll be home by six. I’m going up in the mountain.”