I was looking at the sun one evening as it dropped like a ball of red fire into Wilkins's Woods, when the Little Bishop passed.
"It's the twenty-ninth night," he called, joyously.
"I am so glad," I answered, for I had often feared some accident might prevent his claiming the promised reward. "Then to-morrow Buttercup will be your own cow?"
"I guess so. That's what Uncle Abner said. He's off to Bonnie Eagle now, but he'll be home to-night, and mother's going to send my new hat by him. When Buttercup's my own cow I wish I could change her name and call her Red Rover, but p'r'aps her mother wouldn't like it. When she b'longs to me, mebbe I won't be so 'fraid of gettin' hooked and scrunched, because she'll know she's mine, and she'll go better. I haven't let her get snarled up in the rope one single time, and I don't show I'm afraid, do I?"
"I should never suspect it for an instant," I said, encouragingly. "I've often envied you your bold, brave look!"
He appeared distinctly pleased. "I haven't cried, either, when she's dragged me over the pasture bars and peeled my legs. Bill Jones's little brother Charlie says he ain't afraid of anything, not even bears. He says he would walk right up close and cuff 'em if they dared to yip; but I ain't like that!"
I told Aunt Betty that it was the Bishop's twenty-ninth night, and that the big red cow was to be his on the morrow.
"Well, I hope it'll turn out that way," she said. "But I ain't a mite sure that Abner Sanderson will give up that cow when it comes to the point. It won't be the first time he's tried to crawl out of a bargain with folks a good deal bigger than Phil, for he's close, Abner is! To be sure, Phil's father bought all his stock for him years ago, and set him up on the farm; perhaps that'll make some difference, now he's died, and left nothing to his widder. Abner has hired help in July and August, so he can get the cow to the pasture easy enough without Phil. I wish you'd go up there to-night, and ask Mis' Sanderson if she'll lend me half her yeast-cake, and I'll lend her half of mine a Saturday."
I was used to this errand, for the whole village of Pleasant River would sometimes be rocked to the very centre of its being by simultaneous desire for a yeast-cake. As the nearest repository was a mile and a half distant, as the yeast-cake was valued at two cents and wouldn't keep, as the demand was uncertain, being dependent entirely on a fluctuating desire for "riz bread," the Edgewood store-keeper refused to order more than three yeast-cakes a day at his own risk. Sometimes they remained on his hands a dead loss; sometimes eight or ten persons would "hitch up" and drive from distant farms for the coveted article, only to be met with the flat, "No, I'm all out o' yeast-cake; Mis' Simmons took the last; mebbe you can borry half o' hern, she hain't much of a bread-eater."
So I climbed the hill to Mrs. Sanderson's, knowing my daily bread depended on the successful issue of the call. As I passed by the corner of the barn, I paused behind a great clump of elderberry-bushes, for I heard the timid voice of the Little Bishop and Uncle Abner's gruff tone. I did not wish to interrupt nor overhear a family interview, and I thought they might walk on as they talked; but in a moment I heard Uncle Abner sit down on a stool by the grindstone as he said: