“No, I didn’t hit him very hard,” answered the motorman. “But I just had to get him out of the way. I’d never hurt any animal, for my children have a dog and a cat, and I love them as much as they do. The goat really butted into me as much as I did into him.”
And this, in a way, was true. If Lightfoot had stood still, and had not tried to hit the fender of the car with his horns, he would have been easily pushed to one side. But he had to learn his lesson, and, like the lessons boys and girls have to learn, all are not easy or pleasant ones.
So poor Lightfoot lay groaning in the ditch among the weeds as the trolley car went on. At least he groaned as much as a goat can groan, making a sort of bleating noise.
“Oh, dear!” he thought. “Never again will I do such a thing as this! I will stick to jumping, for I can do that and not be hurt. I wonder if any of my legs or my horns are broken?”
Lightfoot, lying on his side in the ditch, shook his head. His horns seemed to be all right. Then he tried to scramble to his feet. He felt several pains and aches, but, to his delight, he found that he could get up, though he was a bit shaky.
“Well, none of my legs is broken, anyhow,” said Lightfoot to himself. “But I ache all over. I guess I’ll go home.” Home, to Lightfoot, meant the rocks around the shanty of the widow and her son.
As Lightfoot limped from the ditch to the road he passed a puddle of water. He could see himself in this, as you boys and girls can see yourselves in a looking glass. The sight that met his eyes made Lightfoot gasp.
“I’d never know myself!” he said sadly. Well might he say that. One of his legs was cut, and some blood had run from it. His side was scratched and bruised and some skin was scraped from his black nose. “I’m a terrible looking sight,” he said.
He walked along, limping, until he came within sight of the shanty. From behind it came Blackie.
“Why Lightfoot!” she cried in surprise. “Where in the world have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Why! what has happened to you?”