The dog kept running around the wagon making a great ado. Finally some one seemed to come from the house in response to the call of the farmer boy, for a voice inquired:
“What’s the row here?”
“A boy in that wagon box.”
“Some tramp, I suppose.”
“But he’s all tied up with ropes. There’s even something tied in his mouth, so he can’t talk—only stare and grin.”
“You don’t say!”
“Yes, I do. Look for yourself.”
“Well! well! well!”
As the farmer lifted himself up on the wagon box and took a look at Dave, his eyes grew big as saucers. He felt along the cord coming tightly across Dave’s cheeks and of the rope binding his body.
“Jared, run into the house, quick, and get your mother’s scissors,” he ordered.