“I’ll be the old oaken bucket,” called Brent,
“The Bridgeboro woodsman,
The boy scout explorer,
The lonely young camper
That hung in the well.
I’m glad I brought the clotheslines from our yard; they’ll have to send the stuff to the laundry, but they’ll have their son back.”
“Don’t worry,” Tom called; “dig around and see what you can find.”
“Here’s my eyeglass case,” Brent announced. “Do you want me to dig in the mud?”
“Sure, see what’s what.”
“Well,” Brent called, “there’s an old, rotten vine and some stones—and, oh, here’s a tin wagon, a kid’s tin wagon. Or maybe it’s a Ford—no, it’s a toy wagon, all rusty.”