“He didn’t make me fall,” said Davie, drawing the first long breath since the tumble, and pointing up where Bill’s head showed on the top of the load of hay, “I did it myself.”
“Well, never mind—you ain’t none th’ worse for it, I reckon. But you scaret me most out o’ my boots, Davie.” The farmer’s big black eyes began to settle back into their natural places. “Well, pitch back this hay, boys, and drive off.”
“Put me up,” cried Davie. “Oh, I want to get up there again. Do, Mr. Brown,” he begged.
“You sure you can stick on, Davie?”
“Oh, I will—I will stick on,” promised Davie, dreadfully excited, “if you’ll only let me get up there.”
“All right. H’ist him up, boys.”
So the hired men, two of them, seized David and swung him up to the shoulders of the third, and in “a shake of a lamb’s tail,” as the farmer said, there he was on the top of the load, and laughing with glee, and the men below were pitching up the hay that had taken a slide carrying him along with it.
“Keep away from th’ edge,” shouted the farmer after him, as the big horses began to pull the load off across the meadow.
“You mustn’t stand up when we get to th’ barn,” said Bill, not intending to take any risk with this visitor to the farm. “You’ve got to set, an’ duck your head, when Job drives in.”
“I’ll lie down,” said Davie.