Pollio knew it wasn’t a wolf; for it drummed with its hands on a tin pan. But, oh, it did seem awful! It seemed exactly like the wolf that pretended to be Red Riding Hood’s grandmother; and, if poor Red Riding Hood felt much worse than Pollio, I am sorry for her.
“Oh, oh! lemme ’lone!” screamed the little fellow, running, or trying to run; for he was in such a panic that his legs hardly moved, except to tremble.
Instead of being sorry that he had frightened a poor little child, Billy Barstow thought it fine sport, and turned his colt round to chase Pollio. Cruel Billy! But no: he did not mean to be cruel; he was only thoughtless. Billy never stopped to think.
The colt, as full of fun as his master, pranced up and down, then whirled about, reared, and planted his fore-feet upon Pollio, who had fallen flat on the ground.
It was now Billy Barstow’s turn to be frightened; for the child lay as still as if he were dead.
“Help, help!” screamed Billy. But the Fantastics had gone some distance by this time, and were making such a din with their pans and horns, that they scarcely heard the scream; or, if any of them did hear it, I suppose they thought Billy was a noisy fellow not worth minding.
Mrs. Pitcher, aunt Ann, Nunky, and the children, were still standing in the yard. They had seen the colt prancing round and round; and aunt Ann had said, “I’m so glad none of the children are out there!” for they all thought Pollio was in the yard. Nobody had missed him yet, not even Posy.
So when they heard the wolf call out “Help, help!” they only laughed, and thought it was some of Billy’s nonsense. But in half a minute more the wolf had ridden to the gate with flying cap-ruffles, and shouted out through his long white teeth,—
“Quick, quick! He’ll be dead before you get there! And I can’t leave my colt! Run,—run to Pollio!”