“Have you seen anything of a ladder?” Townsend asked the goat.
“You’re crazy,” Pee-wee shouted.
“He says he ate the ladder for dessert last Sunday,” said Townsend. “How near is the car?”
“It’s coming along fast and it’s a Buick roadster,” said Pee-wee.
In deference, perhaps, to the approaching vehicle, Townsend dragged himself to his feet and, yawning, ambled over to where he had hung his coat. It was not where he left it. But it was not far off.
It lay within the picturesque enclosure, one of its sleeves pulled out, part of its lining in a state comparable to shredded wheat and one of its pockets inside out. Nearby lay the tattered remnant of his leather wallet. Out of the mouth of the billy goat dangled a railroad time-table, partially consumed. He was not a discriminating goat for it was an Erie time-table.
A hasty inspection of the carnage revealed the worst and bespoke a massacre more horrible than the charge of the homeless wasps.
“What’s the matter?” Pee-wee called.
“The goat ate my wallet and eleven dollars and my driver’s license,” called Townsend.
“G—o—o—d night!” shouted Pee-wee.