Soon the fire could be discerned on that part of Spoof's farm where he was engaged in putting up hay. The column of smoke was thinning out; fading into the blue blurr of infinitude; it looked as though the excitement would be quite over before we could arrive. However, we were now bent upon paying Spoof a neighbourly call in any case, and when at last our oxen lumbered up we found him gazing somewhat ruefully upon a heap of smouldering embers. The tires of his wagon, grey-red with heat, peered like coiled serpents from under a blanket of ashes.
"What's the matter, Spoof?" we hailed him. "A cigarette butt?"
"No. I was fixing the bullocks, and I've fixed the wagon . . . I forgot the tiger lilies."
There was no anger in Spoof's voice, but a sort of sadness that made us a little ashamed of our sport with him the day before.
"Tell us how it happened," we said, dismounting and turning our oxen to feed along with his at a nearby heap of hay. "We're sorry."
Spoof was himself again. "Of course you are," he rejoined, laughing. "All my fault. How shall I report this to the Governor? I know; I shall say I drove over a Canadian double-orbed firefly—one must throw in a touch of detail, for its realistic effect—and the spark ignited the hay. By the way, how much does a bally wagon cost? A hundred pounds?"
"Oh, no. You can get a good one for a hundred dollars or less, and perhaps a second-hand——"
"But I mean for the purposes of a communication to the Governor?"
We agreed that for such a purpose the value of a wagon was one hundred pounds.
"It happened like this," Spoof explained. "The bullocks decided to have their afternoon siesta as usual, and were unresponsive to all my blandishments. Then I remembered your simple remedy—the remedy which you said would be sure to fix them. So I brought an armful of hay, spread it impartially under both of them, set fire to it, and stood back for results.