While Mike went back to fix his wagon, so he could take home the basket of clean clothes, Lightfoot, the leaping goat, once more began scrambling up the rocks toward the top. Mr. Sharp-horn, who had looked over the edge to see the smaller goat climbing up, had moved back to eat some more grass, and he forgot about Lightfoot.
“Now none of them is looking, I’ll get to the top,” thought Lightfoot. “And when I do I’ll have some fun, and get something good to eat. I want some long-stemmed grass. That at the foot of the rocks is dry and sour.”
On and on he climbed. Now and then he would stop to kick up his heels, he felt so fine, and again he would push his horns against the hard rocks to see how strong his head and neck were getting.
“Soon I’ll be able to butt as well as Grandpa Bumper,” thought Lightfoot.
Some neighboring children, playing in the yard of their shanty next to that of the Malonys, saw Lightfoot kicking and butting.
“Oh look at that funny goat of Mike’s!” called a little girl.
“Sure, he’s a fine goat!” declared her brother. “I wish we had one like that. Our Nannie is getting old,” he added.
On and on went Lightfoot, cutting up such funny capers that the little boy and girl, watching him, laughed with glee.
At last the goat was close to the top of the rocks, where there was a smooth level place and where sweet grass grew. Lightfoot peeped carefully over the top. He did not want Mr. Sharp-horn or Grandpa Bumper to rush at him the first thing and, maybe, knock him head over heels down the rocky hill.