“What will we do if we don’t get there in time for dinner?” asked Tommy after a while.
“Oh, we’ll get there,” said the man, confidently.
Just then the wagon went over a rather large stone, gave a lurch and swayed to one side.
“Look out!” cried the man, pulling on the reins sharply and making a grab for Tommy. The lad grasped the side of the seat with both hands to save himself from falling, and to do this he had to let go of his ball and bat. They both slipped down, and the next instant there was the sound of splintering wood.
“Whoa!” cried the moving man, sharply. “What’s that? Is something broken—a wheel?” He pulled in the horses, which had almost stopped of their own accord.
“It isn’t a wheel,” said Tommy. “It’s my bat. A wheel ran over it, and it’s broken.”
“What, the wheel?” cried the man. “Don’t tell me the wheel is broken!”
“No, it’s my bat,” answered Tommy, and he spoke sorrowfully, for he had saved up his spare change for some time to buy that bat, and he liked it very much.
“Oh, your bat!” exclaimed the man. “That’s too bad! Wait, I’ll get it for you, and maybe you can mend it.”
“The ball, too,” exclaimed Tommy. “That fell.”